Read the first chapter of A SHADOWED LIVERY, an intriguing historical mystery.

Chapter One

The taxi swung out of the avenue and I got my first view of Grovestock House, its blindingly white stucco frontage gleaming in the autumn sunlight. The drive curved gently round a neatly manicured lawn and our wheels crunched on the gravel as we pulled up outside the front door.

As I stood outside waiting for the doorbell to be answered, I wasn’t sure if there would be anything challenging in this case.

‘Just go through the motions,’ Dyer had said to me. ‘There needs to be the appearance of a complete investigation, but we already know what happened. And remember, it’s not me wanting another look at it, it’s the Chief Constable. He’s getting pressure from the press, who think we should have investigated the deaths more thoroughly. They’re suggesting the case wouldn’t have been tied up quite so quickly if the family wasn’t so well connected.’

Briefly, we went through the file together. I recognised the outlines of the case from the newspaper coverage. “Warwickshire House of Death” had screamed one headline, followed by every grim detail of the tragedy. Lady Isabelle Barleigh had killed her wheelchair-bound son with a shotgun before turning the gun on herself. This had been quickly followed by the suicide of the young man’s fiancée. What made the whole affair more chilling was that the couple were to have been married two days later. Instead, they were now sharing a graveyard. I’d felt ill reading the article but, on the face of it, the facts had looked clear. Nevertheless, I was hardly surprised when questions started to be asked about why the whole matter was despatched so quickly. The deaths had only occurred a few days earlier and, somehow, strings had been pulled to convene a quick inquest and then a funeral to replace the wedding celebrations.

Now I was wishing I’d argued more against being assigned to this one, especially as Dyer had taken me off the Jewish beatings investigation and passed it to that idiot Terry Gleeson. If what happened at Grovestock House was as clear-cut as the preliminary work suggested then why give it to me? I’d told him that there were plenty of other good coppers around who’d adequately tie up the loose ends. I think Dyer knew the Bishop and Stack case had given me a good deal of pain and he was trying to do me a favour. Or perhaps his instincts told him that the initial enquiry had been a bit cursory and, perhaps, unreliable.

Anyway, I hadn’t resisted much so I’d left, briefly calling in to my station in Kenilworth, then home to collect a few things, arriving at Grovestock House before lunch. On the way I’d re-read the file and acquainted myself with the facts as they’d been recorded so far. It was unfortunate that a few days had passed and allowed the trail to cool but it couldn’t be avoided in the circumstances.

The local constable, Sawyer, had been pretty thorough in his approach. He’d been telephoned about the deaths around midday, cycled over as soon as he could, arriving an hour later. By then, the body of the fiancée had been discovered; she had shot herself with the dead man’s revolver. First thing he did was make sure the gates were guarded. Nothing to be done for Tom Barleigh, his mother or girlfriend, so he set about photographing the scenes and interviewing witnesses, several of whom told Sawyer that Lady Isabelle had been increasingly set against the marriage, though none knew why. He’d written his notes up swiftly and gone through them with Gleeson, who hadn’t bothered to interview anyone himself. Just like him, idle bugger.

The local doctor decided there was no need for a post-mortem and Sawyer presented his evidence to the inquest, which made the same conclusions he had. It was starting to bother me that everything had been despatched so quickly, so neatly.

I had done my research on the family prior to my visit. Grovestock House had been built sometime in the middle of the eighteenth century when Thomas Barleigh had wanted a new home to reflect his recently acquired status as a Privy Councillor to King George III. He’d been appointed following his generous support to the monarch in a series of conflicts with France, particularly in the Americas. Thomas was no soldier though, he was one of the new breed of industrialists, building up a fortune manufacturing muskets and pistols. Items put to good use by George’s army in its attempts to suppress uprisings across the empire.

Thomas’s grandson, having become a regular drinking partner to the Prince Regent, was raised to a baronetcy when the prince ascended the throne in the early eighteen hundreds and the house had been refurbished and extended to celebrate. Shifts in political allegiance over the next two centuries meant Sir Arthur Barleigh, the present incumbent, no longer had the power and influence his ancestors enjoyed. Nevertheless, the family was still important in the social merry-go-round of the county, hence the newspapers’ interest and the Chief Constable’s newly-found desire to make sure the job was done thoroughly.

A man in his late forties swung open the door. He wore a dark jacket and pin-stripe trousers, and his hair was greying at the temples. He gave off the unmistakeable smell of brilliantine as he looked at me enquiringly over the rim of his glasses. He was beyond question a butler and I remembered from Sawyer’s report that his name was Jervis.

‘Inspector James Given, Warwickshire Constabulary. I believe you’ve been expecting me.’

‘We have, sir. Sir Arthur asked me to prepare a room for you so I’ll take you up if you’ll follow me.’

‘There’ll be no need, thank you, Mr Jervis, I won’t be staying here tonight. I’ve already booked a room in the village. However, you can look after my overnight bag for now if it’s not too much trouble.’

He took it and asked if there was anything else I needed. I told him I’d like to have a look at where the deaths took place.

‘Very good, sir, would you like me to accompany you?’

‘No thank you, that won’t be necessary, just show me where Lady Isabelle and her son died.’

He pointed to the left of the house. ‘The shootings took place down there, sir, on the side lawn.’

I let the butler go about his business, instructing him to tell everyone in the house I’d arrived and would be conducting interviews later in the day. I didn’t think for a moment I’d get through many but it would do no harm to put them under a little pressure.

Before heading to the side of the house I turned on the step and surveyed the grounds. It wasn’t a grand estate by any means and I suspected it had once been much grander. Perhaps a profligate ancestor had squandered too much of the family fortune on high living. It still remained a couple of hundred acres at least, judging by the distance from the gate to the main house. A lawn, directly in front of the main door, was circled by the drive and bordered by several dozen rose bushes, whose scent would have been breath-taking in the height of summer. At its centre stood a magnificent cedar, fully thirty feet across and towering well above the roof top. The whole garden was walled or hedged on the two sides, with openings to further gardens, woods or fields beyond. The entire landscape sloped down to a lake sculpted into the fields below.

When I turned again and stepped back, I was able to take in the full grandeur of the house. There were two enormous bays rising to the roof and there were roughly twenty windows, all in the Georgian style. Ruefully, I compared this with the single window on each floor of my own little cottage in Kenilworth. The gravel crunched beneath my feet as I walked to the side lawn and through the gate. High walls and hedges surrounded the area and it was obvious that whatever had taken place here wouldn’t have been seen from anywhere in front of the building. Not unless someone was close enough to the gate. I noted there was no other access, or exit, apart from a side door into the house. The side walls were of much plainer red-brick and of a much earlier period, the grand frontage being merely a façade. I wondered what else in this case might be not what it seemed on the surface.

 

‘Good afternoon, constable.’ I looked at my notes. ‘Sawyer, isn’t it?’

‘Yes sir, John Sawyer.’

‘I’ve had a chance to have a look at your report but there are a few things I need to go over with you, to get them clear. Well done with the photographs, by the way, a very thorough touch.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

He’d joined me at Grovestock a few minutes after my inspection of the front gardens. He was tall even for a copper, towering over me when I stood to shake his hand. His blond hair and fresh features, accompanied by the flushed cheeks when I praised his work, gave the impression of an overgrown schoolboy in a policeman’s uniform.

‘I had my Brownie with me, sir; I tend to put it in my saddlebag when I’m out in case I see anything interesting to photograph on the way. There’s not usually much use for it in my work round here, though. Lost cats, neighbour disputes, that kind of thing. I’m lucky enough to have a darkroom at home so was able to develop them myself as well.’

Sawyer’s boyish enthusiasm was naive, but clearly he was smart and not afraid of using his own initiative. I was certain it would have been the first murder he’d looked at so he’d done well to keep calm and record everything as fully as he had.

‘Why did you conclude Isabelle Barleigh had shot Tom and then herself?’

‘Well, it all looked very obvious on the day, sir. The two of them were lying on the ground with the weapon between them. He’d been shot in the chest from close range, toppling him out of his wheelchair, and she’d shot herself under the chin, really the only way she could have done it with a shotgun.’ Sawyer turned green as he remembered. ‘Also, people from the house and the estate were there in minutes, so it seemed unlikely that anyone could have carried out a murder then disappeared down the road without being noticed.’

‘Not likely, or not possible?’

He now hung his head slightly at the thought he might have missed something.

‘I suppose it might barely have been possible, sir, for someone who knew the place well enough.’

I asked him if there was anything else at the scene, anything at all which might suggest a different set of circumstances.

‘Nothing really, sir. The only slightly odd thing was that Lady Isabelle had a scrap of paper clutched in her left hand.’

‘Paper?’

‘It appeared to be a bit of a letter, judging by the partial address in one corner. It turned out to be that of Miss Bamford’s father, Gerald Bamford. I searched the garden thoroughly but didn’t find any more of it and presumed the scrap was all she had.’

‘And what about Jenny Bamford? You concluded she’d committed suicide as well. Did she leave a note?’

‘There was no note, at least none that I found. When I was let into Tom’s room by Jervis, Miss Bamford was lying on the bed with the revolver on the floor below her hand. It seems that the gun belonged to Tom Barleigh and everyone knew he kept it in a drawer in his bedroom. She had a single bullet hole to the side of her head and the pillow was covered with blood, so it was clear she’d died where she lay.’

He looked queasy again so I let him settle before continuing.

‘Did you interview everyone when you arrived?’

‘I took statements from everyone there. You’ll know from the file that Billy Sharp and Tom Barleigh’s nurse, Trudi Collinge, disappeared before I could interview them. I would have liked to speak to Jenny’s family as well, to see if she’d been unhappy and so on.’

‘But you didn’t manage it?’

‘No, it wasn’t possible. Parents are divorced, she’s in Australia and remarried. We sent a telegram to the local police so they could let her know her daughter was dead. Her father showed up briefly at the funeral but then left part way through before I could speak to him. I asked one of the other lads to call round to see him but apparently the house looks like it’s been empty for a few days.’

‘What about Sir Arthur? Did you get a full statement out of him?’

‘That wasn’t easy, sir, but I did get something. I was told by the butler that Sir Arthur had some urgent business which he needed to attend to and it would be really helpful if I could interview one or two of the others first. It made no real difference to me so I just got on with seeing everyone else that I could. When I’d finished, Jervis came to fetch me to go to Sir Arthur’s study. He seemed a bit surprised to see me still there but did agree to be interviewed. Apart from telling me where he was when each of the shootings happened he wasn’t able to add anything to what everyone else had said.’

‘Did he suggest any reason why his wife might have done such a thing?’

‘He said he was at a complete loss about it. To be honest, he seemed … overcome, if you understand me. Like he didn’t really know what was happening. I thought I’d best leave it alone until I was told to do otherwise by someone more senior. I did telephone next day in case he was feeling any better but was told he’d been given sedatives and was sleeping.’

‘Tell me about him. How is it that he’s “Sir” Arthur?’

‘He’s a baronet and inherited the title. It’s come down through about eight generations until he took it over when his father died at the end of the Great War. That was about the same time he married Lady Isabelle.’

‘“Lady” Isabelle? She was a proper toff then, was she?’

‘No, I don’t think so. I’d be fairly sure she picked up the title from him. I don’t know much about her but I’ve an idea she was just a local girl who got lucky.’ Sawyer then came up with a question he must have been dying to ask since we met. ‘Excuse me, Inspector, and I know it’s perhaps none of my business, but why has it taken so long for someone to follow up the case? I mean, I know Inspector Gleeson went through the file but he didn’t even come down to the house, just met me at the station. Said there was no need. But now you’ve turned up.’

‘You’re right, it would have been much better if I’d have been able to make it straight away but I wasn’t available. On the day I was still tied up with the Peter Bishop hanging.’

‘I read about that case. Didn’t they kick a Jewish butcher to death in Birmingham?’

‘They did. Bishop and Stack scarpered but I got lucky when they were heard bragging about it in a pub. They were both members of a Blackshirt gang, followers of that idiot Mosley, and had been planning the attack for weeks. Anyway, by the time it was over, you and Inspector Gleeson had finished the investigation.’

I told him Gleeson had forwarded the file to the Chief Constable with a recommendation for no further action.

‘If you hadn’t made such a convincing case for a murder and two suicides it might have been chased up sooner.’

‘I’m sorry, sir, it all seemed so clear cut.’

‘Don’t worry about it, you did a good job. I can think of half a dozen officers, with much more experience than you, who would have come to the same conclusion. It was only after the inquest, when the big boss started getting pressure from the newspapers, that he asked Superintendent Dyer to have another look.’

‘And you think there’s more to the case than meets the eye, sir?’

‘I don’t know, but it’s all a bit too neat and tidy for my liking. Let’s just sniff around a bit longer and see what turns up. If it’s nothing more than me being overly cautious, then you’ll gain more respect from your colleagues and I’ll have had a nice day or two in the Warwickshire countryside.’

Sawyer filled me in on the other interviews he’d carried out with the household staff and the gardeners. No-one had witnessed anything and all except the butler were able to account for where they were when the shootings happened. Sawyer had also spoken to a friend of Tom’s, Alan Haleson, who was staying at Grovestock House and would have been his best man at the forthcoming wedding. Haleson had reported his version of the events but was on his own when each of the shootings took place.

‘So what would you like me to do now, Inspector?’

‘It’s imperative we find the young gardener, Tom’s nurse, and Jenny Bamford’s father. And I’ve to get a full interview with Sir Arthur. You follow up the first three as best you can. I’m going to finish reading the file and then go back to the bereaved husband and a few of his staff. Let’s see how we get on and we’ll meet up again tomorrow.’

 

I found Jervis in his pantry, a small room between the kitchen and main part of the house. This was the nerve centre of his fiefdom. There was all the paraphernalia associated with ensuring the life of his master was well run and comfortable: the wine coolers, ice buckets, silver trays, cutlery boxes and so on. The room also contained a small table and two chairs; an old one seemingly from the kitchen, and a slightly more welcoming one placed in the corner. Jervis had an open ledger on the table when I popped my head round the door. A number of others were neatly stacked on the shelf above him.

‘You look busy, Mr Jervis.’

‘Not really, Inspector, just catching up on some paperwork.’ He smiled sorrowfully as he got up to beckon me inside. ‘Much less to do now with fewer people in the house. We were expecting this to be such a happy time. How can I help you?’

The man looked upset and seemed to be putting on a brave face for the sake of the other servants. He must have felt the tragedy as heavily as everyone else.

‘I need to see Sir Arthur. Could you go up and tell him I’m here and want to interview him?’

‘I’m afraid I can’t, sir, he’s not here.’

‘Not here? A moment ago you said he was in his room most of the time. I thought I asked you to tell everyone I’d like to see them today.’

‘I’m sorry, sir, I should have said when you arrived. He decided this morning he needed to get out of the house so left quite early for a ride.’

‘Does he often do this?’

‘Before all of this happened he’d go out several times a week and could be away for hours. On more than one occasion he’d travel as far as Banbury and back in the day; a good three hours’ journey in each direction. I believe he thought you wouldn’t be here until the evening. I couldn’t say when he’ll come home but I’ll let him know you want to see him if you’re still here. He’s said we need to give the police as much assistance as we can and I should put the house at your disposal if you need somewhere to stay or work.’

I was annoyed at Sir Arthur’s absence but all I could do was interview the butler and hope his employer would return soon. I thanked Jervis for the offer of a room to work in, took a seat and checked some of the details from the file with him.

‘So where were you at the time of the first shootings, Mr Jervis?’

‘It’s as I told the Constable, sir. I’d just entered the lift upstairs and pressed the button to come down. I wouldn’t normally use it, of course; the servants aren’t really allowed. We’re supposed to use the side stairs, but I was bringing down a large basket of bed linen that needed to be aired for the guests due to arrive.’

‘Surely that isn’t your job?’

‘It’s usually one of the maid’s jobs to fetch the linen but there was so much it needed someone stronger. I thought the first bang was something to do with the lift machinery starting up. Then, when I’d travelled a few more feet, I heard the second bang and was certain it was a gunshot fairly close by, much closer to the house than would be usual. I got out as soon as the lift arrived on the ground floor then saw Miss Parry at the bottom of the stairs, about to run out of the front door.’

There was a silence.

‘And who is Miss Parry?’

I think I knew the answer before he gave it. It would be too much of a coincidence for it not to be her.

‘Miss Elizabeth Parry is the housekeeper, Inspector.’

I hadn’t expected to hear her name ever again. It made my stomach churn and my head spin.

‘So what did you do?’

‘I knew something must be wrong so I joined her. Mr Haleson, Mr Barleigh’s friend, also appeared at that point and came with us. I wasn’t sure which direction to go but she said it was on the side lawn so we went that way. I shouted for her to stay behind me in case there was still any danger.’

‘That was very brave of you, Mr Jervis.’

‘I don’t know about brave, sir; I was doing my duty.’

I went on to question him about what he’d seen when he arrived at the side lawn and he repeated what he’d told Sawyer. He also confirmed he’d gone inside to find Sir Arthur straight after the bodies were discovered. He had asked Elizabeth Parry to tell the rest of the staff what had happened.

‘You let Miss Bamford into the house when she returned?’

‘I did.’

‘And you told her what had happened?’

‘Oh no, Inspector. I was under strict instructions from Sir Arthur not to say anything, that I should simply inform her he wanted to see her upstairs in his room.’

Jenny left him in the hallway and climbed the main stairs to the upper landing. Shortly afterwards he was making his way to the kitchen to join the other staff when he heard a shot from upstairs. He ran back through the house and up the central staircase then searched from room to room to try to find where the shot had been fired. He arrived at Tom Barleigh’s room last of all and saw Sir Arthur and Alan Haleson standing over Jenny Bamford. A revolver was on the floor beside the bed.

His voice caught in his throat when he recalled seeing the dead young woman, though his face gave nothing away. I couldn’t help wondering if he was perhaps fonder of her than of the others. There was nothing else he could tell me so I asked him to contact me straight away if he thought of anything important he’d missed. I didn’t really expect he would. Jervis had a butler’s loyalty so family secrets would remain secret.

 

Sir Arthur still hadn’t returned when I’d finished with the butler. I decided to move on to the maid who had witnessed the first two deaths on the side lawn. I asked for her to be sent to the room which had now been put at my disposal, the “morning room”. I’d spent several years at sea, often with four to a cabin, and it amused me to think the aristocracy have special rooms they only utilise at particular times of the day. I even think my own little cottage is spacious, having the luxury of an extra bedroom for me to use as an office.

Marion Clark stood before me, looking nervous, and confirmed she was upper housemaid to Sir Arthur and Lady Isabelle Barleigh. She’d been in their employment for about two years. There was something about the girl’s face that hinted at a touch of stupidity and though she was twenty years old or thereabouts, she looked much younger.

‘You were interviewed by Constable Sawyer on Tuesday, weren’t you, Marion?’

‘Yes sir, I was, sir.’

‘Well, I’m a detective and an Inspector, so much more senior than he is and there can be no lies from you. Do you understand me, Marion?’

If the girl had been nervous before, she now looked like she’d faint away any moment, her eyes darting this way and that, and her hands wringing her apron front.

‘I understand, sir. I wouldn’t lie.’

I told her to take a seat.

‘You’ve known the family for a good while now, so what do you make of them?’

She appeared to struggle for words.

‘They’ve always treated me well, sir.’

‘I wasn’t asking how they treat you, Marion. Were Sir Arthur and Lady Isabelle a happy couple?’

‘That wouldn’t be for me to say, Inspector Given, I’m not one for telling tales.’

‘But that’s exactly what I want you to do, Marion. In fact, I’m actually expecting you to tell tales. We have three deaths here and I dearly want to get to the truth of what happened. But we’ll perhaps come back to what you think of the family a little later. For now you can tell me what you saw on Tuesday.’

‘Tuesday? Well, sir, Tuesday is my day for cleaning Mr Tom’s room. His nurse, Miss Collinge, sees to it most days but once or twice a week the other staff take a turn and on Tuesday it’s me. I start with the beds, then brush the carpet and finish up by tidying his desk.’

For some reason this turned on the waterworks and we had to pause for a minute or two.

‘I’m sorry sir, it’s just the thought of it… Mr Tom is — was — very fussy, you know and didn’t want us messing about with his papers, only to put them neatly into piles where he left them. I was at the desk, and I could see out of the window and across the side lawn. It was such a lovely day I couldn’t stop myself from looking out for a few minutes. I wasn’t slacking sir, honest I wasn’t. If only it had been raining then none of this might have come about. Mr Tom wouldn’t have been outside and his mother wouldn’t…’ She sniffled and I was certain she’d open the sluice gates again.

‘Hold on, Marion, let’s stay with what you saw out of the window.’

There was more sniffling and a blow of her nose before we could resume.

‘As I said, sir, I was by the desk, and looking out of the window at Mr Barleigh out on the lawn. He sat in his wheelchair reading most days when the weather was good enough. Always very fond of his books he was, sir, even before his accident.’

‘You were here before that happened?’

‘Oh yes, sir, though I hadn’t been here long then, a great shock to us all it was, especially to Lady Isabelle. She seemed to worry about him all the time after he came back from the hospital.’ The maid looked like she was going to tell me more but caught herself and returned to my earlier question. ‘Sorry, sir, I was telling you what I saw. Suddenly the blackbirds pecking for worms took off and Lady Isabelle came into view, from the front gate I think, though I couldn’t be sure. I straight away thought something must be wrong, ’cos her ladyship seemed to be shouting and waving her hand about like she’s half mad.’

‘What about the other hand?’

‘The other hand? Well, I think she must have had the shotgun under her arm because she was holding something close to her side.’

‘Did you see the shotgun, Marion?’

‘No, I didn’t. But that’s what it must have been, mustn’t it, otherwise where would she have got it from?’

‘That is something quite else. You remember what I said, and tell me what you actually saw, no more and no less. Understand? So what happened next?’

‘Mr Tom looked up at her — I didn’t see no more, sir, because Miss Parry, the housekeeper, had been watching me from inside the doorway and shouted for me to get on with my work.’

‘So you didn’t see the actual shooting take place?’

‘No sir, can’t say as I did. I heard the shotgun go off right outside, and Miss Parry and I both looked at each other but before we can do or say anything, there’s a second shot. We were then so terrified, sir, honest sir. Miss Parry tells me to go back up to my room, quick as I can, and she heads off down the stairs to look for Mr Jervis. I…’ She stopped, blushing.

‘What is it, Marion? Remember, this is a police matter, we need the complete truth.’

‘Yes, sir, Mr … Inspector. Well … truth is I didn’t go straight back upstairs. I crept back across the bedroom and peeked out of the window. It was only for a second, ’cos I couldn’t face it no longer, but what I saw was the two of them, Mr Tom and his mother, lying on the ground with the shotgun beside Lady Isabelle.’ She stared sightlessly ahead, remembering. ‘There was just the wheels of his chair going round and round…’

‘Did you see anyone else there, Marion?’

‘No, sir. All I could do was stare at those bodies. The blood and the stillness all around. There was no-one else there that I saw.’

The maid seemed transfixed by the memory and I had to prompt her to continue.

‘It’s all I know really, sir. I ran up to my room and stayed there until Miss Parry called all the staff together to tell them what had happened.’ Suddenly she looked at me, her eyes focusing. ‘Why’d she do it, sir? They were so close, the two of them.’

‘Well, that’s what I’m here to find out. Where were you when the third shooting occurred, that of Miss Bamford?’

‘Just where I said, sir. Miss Parry had called all the servants together in the kitchen to tell them what had happened. She was shaking like a leaf and said there’d been a terrible accident. A minute after she told us Mr Jervis had phoned the police there was another shot, from upstairs.’

‘Who was in the kitchen at the time, Marion?’

‘Well, sir, apart from me and Miss Parry, there was Mrs Veasey, she’s the cook, Peggy Shaw, the other maid, and Mr Perkins, the head gardener.’

‘So there were five of you, is that correct?’

Clark slowly counted the names in her head and on her fingers to confirm the number. ‘Yes, sir, that’s it.’

‘Mr Jervis and Nurse Collinge weren’t there with you?’

‘No, sir, they weren’t. Mr Jervis had been waiting for Miss Bamford to come back and someone said Nurse Collinge was too upset to come down. She was very fond of Mr Barleigh, you know.’

‘Had you seen Jenny Bamford arrive back at the house?’

‘I hadn’t, sir. As I told you, I went to my room like Miss Parry had told me and stayed there until she called for us to the kitchen. I don’t know when Miss Bamford came back, sir.’

I spent another few minutes clarifying some of the points she’d made and I underlined a couple of items in my notebook, then told her she could go. There was still something niggling me about what she’d seen that didn’t seem right.

 

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DAY ONE

6 July 2008

She bucked and jerked wildly and he had to bear down all of his twelve stone onto her wiry yet well-toned young body as her limbs smacked against his… She was fighting for her life.

Then the air exploded from her chest in a heavy moan and she stopped thrashing.

Gasping for breath and drenched in sweat, he pushed himself up from her limp figure. He’d thought she was never going to die, amazed at the fight she had put up. He took several deep breaths and tried to slow his racing heartbeat, watching with fascination as dark viscous blood belched from her eye sockets, joining other rivulets which were already matting her dark bob of hair and forming a pool around her head.

Bending down, he scraped the mess from his knife into the dusty earth and then dropped it into his coat pocket and set to work.

He couldn’t leave her body here.

Dragging the bloodied corpse by the wrists along the flagstone floor, he soon found himself gasping for breath again, and he could feel fresh beads of sweat tickling his ribcage as he hauled her towards the barn entrance.

Then a distant unfamiliar noise caught his attention; a noise which didn’t belong to the surroundings. He paused and listened. It was coming nearer. He dropped the girl’s arms and dashed to a slit in the barn wall, threw himself against the damp stone and twisted sideways to peer through the gap without being seen. For a split-second the sunlight blurred his vision but as it cleared, he spotted a flat-back lorry bouncing along the uneven farm track, coming his way.

He closed his eyes and held his breath, gritting his teeth. He couldn’t believe his bad luck. He had sought out this place especially for its remoteness, visiting it at different times over the past few weeks to finalise his plan. In all that time no one had come near and now, today of all days, he had a visitor. For a few seconds he thought about killing the driver, but then realised he didn’t know this adversary.

He looked back along the lane. The truck was only a few hundred yards away and there was no sign of it stopping.

He took one last look at the lifeless form, realising he had no other choice but to make his escape, leaving behind this bloodied mess. He couldn’t afford to be caught. Not after all this time.

‘Damn,’ he cursed, realising he wouldn’t be able to finish off what he had set out to do. He slipped the playing card from his trouser pocket and, suit side up, placed it over the gaping wound in the middle of her chest. Now was the time to show them that this was his handiwork.

 

Dennis O’Brian swung the Bedford lorry through the broken entranceway that led to the tumbledown farm and braked sharply, throwing up a cloud of dust. Surveying the old Yorkshire stone buildings in a bad state of repair, he smiled to himself. Then, making a quick call on his mobile, he shut down the engine, flung open the driver’s door and leapt out of the cab. For a good few seconds he scanned the ramshackle buildings, weighing up which portions of stone would reap the most rewards.

Then he froze and his heart skipped a beat as he caught the sound of running feet. He was about to leap back into his truck when he realised the footfalls were growing fainter. Whoever had been here was legging–it, he thought. A grin snaked across his mouth and he chuckled to himself. Bet it was another stone thief who thought he was going to be caught.

As he stepped out of the sunlight into the dimness of the barn’s interior, he wasn’t prepared for what greeted him. Sprawled across the uneven dirt floor was a lifeless and bloody form. Only from the clothing could he tell it was a girl; the injuries inflicted upon her were like nothing he had ever seen before.

He began to retch as he fished in his jeans pocket for his mobile.

 

As he pushed the CID car door shut with his hip, Detective Sergeant Hunter Kerr paused for a moment and gathered his thoughts while casting his gaze out over the very active crime scene before him. He watched a line of uniformed officers, regular intervals apart, striding slowly through waist-high crops, their white short-sleeved shirts standing out against a backdrop of lush green trees.

Above him the Force helicopter hovered, the drumming noise of its rotor blades disturbing the peace of the surroundings.

He had raced here at breakneck speeds, listening to updates being broadcast over his radio. By the time he arrived, he had enough information to formulate a picture in his mind of what had happened.

Scanning the surroundings with his steel blue eyes, he knew that in one of the dilapidated and derelict farm buildings ahead a young girl’s battered body had been found, and that her killer had fled the area only about an hour beforehand. Right now, everything was being done as quickly and thoroughly as possible to track down her murderer and secure the site.

Hunter knew this area well. As an amateur artist, he had visited the location on many occasions and painted the subjects in the vicinity. In fact, the old farm buildings had been captured many times in his oil sketches. It was disconcerting that such atmospheric surroundings, which featured in paintings back home, were now centre-stage in a gruesome discovery.

‘Hi Sarge.’

Hunter turned to see his partner DC Grace Marshall tramping towards him at a pace. In her smart, pale grey business suit, Grace looked more the confident professional businesswoman than a hard-working front-line murder detective.

She was corralling her dark hair into an elastic scrunchy. Her face was grim.

‘It’s bad in there, Hunter. You ought to see what he’s done to her.’

‘What have we got then, Grace?’

‘It looks like it’s Rebecca Morris, the fourteen-year-old who was reported missing only a few hours ago. She should have turned up for an exam at her school this morning but didn’t.’ Grace finished bunching her hair. ‘She’s in a real mess. Her face is barely recognisable. No one’s moved or touched the body. First uniform on site could see from the state of her that she was dead and immediately cordoned off the area. The three nines call came from a guy who had driven here in his lorry. He’s now back at the station being interviewed. His story is that he just happened to be driving up the track to the farm for a quick ten minutes rest, but he’s got form for theft and it’s my guess that he was going to nick some of the stone or slates from here. Anyway, he says he just got out of his cab, heard the sound of someone running from the back of one of the buildings, and then a car starting up and screeching away. When he goes round to look, he finds the girl dead in the barn.’

‘And do we believe him?’

Grace shrugged her shoulders. ‘No reason not to at the moment. As I say, he is known to us. He’s got previous for nicking stone and lead from church roofs. He’s also got a couple of convictions for drunk and disorderly, but those are over fifteen years ago, and he’s got nothing for violence. And to be fair, he did ring it in and stick around until uniform arrived, and they say he appeared to be genuinely shook up over it. I’ve had him lodged in a cell and he can stew there for a couple of hours ’til we’re clear from here. I’ll get a statement from him and then kick him out.’

‘Any description of the person he disturbed?’ Hunter asked.

‘No, unfortunately not. Well gone before he got to the barn. The guy says he heard a car or van driving off up the dirt track over there.’ Grace pointed to a small copse of trees several hundred yards away.

It was warmer than he’d anticipated and Hunter tugged at the crisp collar of his blue shirt. Before he had shot away from the station he had slung on a jacket. Now he wished he hadn’t and he undid the top button of his shirt and loosened his tie.

‘Where does that track go to, Grace?’ he asked, pointing at a line of bushes just beyond the old farm buildings.

‘It leads up to a B road half a mile away. It takes you past the Ings and eventually brings you out near the village of Harlington. I’ve got uniform to seal off that area as well.’

‘Okay, good job, Grace. Are Scenes of Crime here?’

‘Just arrived. The forensic pathologist and the senior investigating officer are also en route. Everything should be in place in the next hour.’

Hunter realised it was an ideal opportunity to slip off his jacket and make the most of the warm breeze drifting across the fields. Going to the rear of his CID car he sprang open the boot and dropped his coat into the back. Then, pulling the sides of his shirt from his sticky and clammy skin, he reached into one of the storage boxes and pulled out a white forensic suit and set of shoe covers. He handed these to Grace and then pulled out another set for himself.

‘Come on then, show me what we’ve got,’ he said as he stepped into one leg of the protective suit.

Having satisfied themselves that all the relevant evidence sites were secured, Hunter and Grace made their way back to the murder scene, carefully following the police cordon tape, past the ruined farmhouse building and into a tumbledown barn. Streams of light burst through gaps between the old roof timbers where slates had become dislodged or broken, but despite the sunlight the interior was cool.

The body lay unceremoniously on the dirty stone slab floor, a pool of thick, congealed blood around the head and shoulders. The battered and swollen face was caked in blood. Where the eyes should have been, only two dark sockets crusted in dried blood looked back. At first glance, because of the injuries, if Hunter hadn’t already been told he was looking at the face of a young girl, he would never have known. The arms were outstretched above the head and the hands had already been forensically bagged. The girl’s T-shirt and padded pink lace bra had been pulled up, exposing her small pale breasts. A huge gash exposed the breastbone, and other less deep cuts covered her abdomen. Her jeans were undone but still around her hips.

In another white forensic suit, bending over the cadaver, he recognised Professor Lizzie McCormack. Slim and petite, in her early sixties, with features not dissimilar to the actress Geraldine McEwan, she had dutifully earned herself the nickname ‘Miss Marple’. She was one of the small number of British forensic experts who had been invited to work with American scientists at the Tennessee body farm, studying detection experiments on decomposing murder victims, and had gained national recognition in the location of human remains and the linking of offenders to the scene.

He was pleased Professor McCormack had been called out. Hunter had first seen her at work a year ago when the remains of a young mother had been found in a muddy ditch just outside town. She was one of a handful of forensic botanists in the country and had been able to establish that the pollen found on the shoes of the girl’s partner exactly matched the type found in the ditch. Not only had this evidence broken the man’s story but also, such was her presence in the witness box, the jury had no difficulty in reaching a guilty verdict and he’d been sentenced to 22 years in jail. It had been a good result.

Her light-grey eyes looked up from the dead girl and, from behind a pair of thin gold-framed spectacles, fixed his. ‘Detective Sergeant Kerr, long time no see,’ she greeted him in her soft Scottish lilt.

Her welcome surprised him. ‘You’ve remembered me after all this time,’ he said.

‘With a fine Scottish name like that, how could I forget you?’

‘And there’s me thinking it was because of my good looks.’

She smiled, tut-tutted, and gave him a quick dismissive shake of her head. ‘By the way, before I start my examination, I think you need this.’ She handed him a clear plastic exhibit bag. Inside was a playing card, its reverse side facing him.

He turned it over. The seven of hearts. He gave a quizzical frown.

‘My sentiments exactly,’ the pathologist responded. ‘That card was partially covering the gaping wound you can see in the centre of her chest.’ She turned her attention back to the cadaver.

Hunter watched her move painstakingly around the body, her every move captured on video. The samples she pointed to were quickly photographed and bagged by the Scenes of Crime officers and forensic team who followed in her wake. Pausing, she lifted her head towards Hunter and Grace. Glancing over her spectacles, which had fallen down her nose, she enquired, ‘Has anyone moved the body?’

Hunter gave Grace a questioning look.

She responded with a shrug and shake of head. ‘Not that we know of. The man who found the body couldn’t get away quick enough before he phoned in. Though he said he heard someone running away from the scene.’

‘Well, the body has definitely been moved. There are scuffmarks in the matted blood on the floor; clearly where she has been dragged. And also, we have the arms outstretched above her head which tend to reinforce that theory.’ The pathologist rolled the corpse towards her and exposed an ugly pattern of purple beneath the surface of the back’s flesh, the result of the muscles and organs no longer pumping blood around the body, and gravity taking over.

‘The lividity is just starting to blanch. Hypostasis is in the early stages and body temperature readings would indicate she has been here for only a few hours. By the drag marks through the blood I would say that someone has attempted to move this body after death.’

‘We believe it’s a fourteen-year-old girl who was reported missing only a few hours ago. Her name’s Rebecca Morris,’ said Grace.

‘Well, my initial findings would suggest she was most probably murdered less than two hours ago. She has multiple stab and incised wounds to her head and as you can see a sharp instrument has penetrated both eyes. There is also the deep wound to the upper chest. Despite the considerable amount of congealed blood, I can’t say for sure yet if she was dead before or after the wounds were inflicted because I have also found this.’ Professor McCormack pulled down the neckline of the dead girl’s T-shirt a few inches below the throat. With a latex gloved hand, she pointed out several red weals around the front of the neck.

‘There is petechial haemorrhaging on the skin which is consistent with some type of ligature being placed tightly around the anterior neck. In other words, she has been strangled with something approximately five centimetres wide. And looking at the nip and graze marks on the side of her upper neck my first thoughts are a belt of some type. The post mortem will give us a better indication.’ She snapped off her gloves. ‘I’ve finished now if you’d like to bag up this once dear creature and remove her to the mortuary for me.’ She eased herself up gently, her hands clasped around her knee joints. ‘The arthritis is playing me up today.’

 

The smell of death was something Hunter Kerr could never get used to. Despite the air conditioning in the white tiled mortuary, the stench was a nauseating mixture of decaying flesh and stale blood, which enveloped him and which he knew would be clinging to every article of clothing he wore for the remainder of the day. He popped an extra strong mint into his mouth in an effort to cover the smell. The mortuary also brought back the memories of when he had dealt with his first cot-death. The baby had been roughly the same age as his own first-born and all he had seen throughout the procedure was the face of Jonathan superimposed on the dead child. For days after, he had lain awake at night watching the movement of the Moses basket at the side of the bed and listening to Jonathan’s breathing pattern.

The girl on the metal slab had been cleaned up and he could now clearly see the horrendous wounds inflicted on her head. The dark mushy sockets, devoid of eyes, gave the face an almost surreal appearance. He had never been squeamish when it came to looking at dead bodies, whatever state they were in, though as a young cop he had never liked having to physically handle the cold flesh. That was a job he’d faced with trepidation and, whenever possible, avoided.

Now in her green pathologist’s scrubs, Professor McCormack moved gracefully around the body, her dexterous hands measuring and moving limbs, picking up and setting down the many shiny precision instruments, each having its own function to perform, whether it be cracking and cutting bone or slicing through flesh. She probed orifices with swabs and scraped under fingernails, meticulously noting and labelling each sample, all the while speaking with her soft Scottish brogue into a metal microphone hanging from the ceiling, poised above the cadaver.

‘The body is that of a normally developed pubescent white female, and appears generally consistent with the stated age of fourteen years,’ she began. Moving to the head, she scrutinised, probed and measured the numerous wounds. ‘There is evidence of multiple sharp-force injury,’ she continued in a steady voice.

After spending some considerable time counting and detailing each of the head wounds, she moved to the neck. She pointed out several marks to the Scenes of Crime officer and stepped back while close-up photographs were taken. Then, taking a small surgical scalpel, she began the process of incising the yellowing flesh at the base of the neck and peeling the scalp and face completely over the head to reveal a glistening white skull.

Inside fifteen minutes the professor had removed the brain, measured and weighed it, and sliced off small samples of the grey tissue for further analysis. She then began moving down the body, examining the many cuts and gashes inflicted on the upper torso. Within a minute she gave out an elongated ‘Mmmm’, paused, and caught Hunter’s gaze. ‘You’re going to find this very interesting, very interesting indeed.’

Hunter furrowed his brow.

‘That’s grabbed your attention, hasn’t it?’ She grinned, and began circling an index finger above the cadaver’s abdomen. ‘I thought at first these were minor stab wounds,’ she continued, pointing to several regular marks gouged into the flesh. ‘These cuts are nowhere near as deep as the others. The blade has only penetrated the first subcutaneous layer.’

Hunter moved in closer, bending over Rebecca’s body, focusing on the area Professor McCormick indicated. He stared at the series of consistent slashes above the navel, unable at first to make head-nor-tail of them; that was until he followed the slow deliberate movement of the pathologist’s finger, then he did. He could quite clearly make out the letters ‘I I V’ and a number three lined across the stomach. He glanced at the professor. She looked preoccupied.

‘This is a first for me,’ she said. ‘Well, in the flesh anyway, so to speak, but I have seen photographs of similar markings of corpses and read about this some time ago.’ She paused again before continuing. ‘What you have here, Detective Sergeant, is the killer’s signature. What you make of it is the same as me at the moment, a series of letters or Roman numerals, and what appears to be the number three.’ She took a step back while the Scenes of Crime officer moved in with his camera and rattled off a sequence of photographs, its flash highlighting the red marks carved into the marble-like flesh.

‘Add to this the playing card, which was found lying across her chest, and I can say with some confidence that this is definitely the killer letting you know it’s his or her handiwork. Though, given the viciousness of the attack, I am more inclined to favour that a man’s hand is responsible.’ The pathologist caught Hunter’s startled look. ‘I would start by contacting other forces, because it’s my guess that this young girl is not his first victim.’

She returned to her examination of the body, and just over an hour later she snapped off her latex gloves and turned to Hunter.

‘Many of the wounds to the face and head are regular and suggest a knife of at least ten centimetres in length with an angled blade at its point. Many are stab type wounds, which have penetrated both the facial and muscle tissue of the head, and in places the bone beneath has actually been chipped. The most serious of those are to the eye sockets. Here, the knife has actually sliced through into the brain and penetrated to the extent of ten centimetres. The downward slant of these wounds indicate a continued jabbing action. A real frenzied hacking at the face.’ The professor emphasised her words by thrusting her arm up and down several times. ‘My other findings are death by asphyxia due to ligature strangulation. The hyoid bone and the thyroid and cricoid cartilages are fractured, which would indicate tremendous pressure around the throat. The marks suggest a belt of some type and I reinforce this by a buckle-mark where it’s nipped the upper neck. The mark is so clear that if you find the right belt, I will be able to confirm a match.

‘This is a particularly vicious and sustained attack. From the lack of defence injuries, I would suggest she was strangled first and then, as she lay dead or dying, she was stabbed numerous times to the face and head. There is no evidence of any sexual interference, though swabs have been taken for more detailed analysis. It never ceases to amaze me just how cruel the human race is,’ she finished as she turned towards the shower room.

 

‘Earlier today, the body of a teenage girl was found in old farm buildings close to the town of Barnwell. Police have identified her as fourteen-year-old Rebecca Morris and confirm that she had been brutally murdered.’

The hairs at the back of the man’s head bristled and he could feel his face flush. The rest of the news report became a jumble of words as he stared at the TV, which flicked between scenes showing the regional newsroom and a reporter who was broadcasting in front of the derelict buildings — the farm from earlier.

That was the closest yet to being caught.

He screwed up his face and shuddered, feeling a little light-headed. He had held his breath for far too long as he concentrated on the news report. He exhaled sharply and took in a gulp of air.

In the depths of his mind he recalled the events of the past two days. In the early hours of the night before last, and for most of yesterday morning, he could barely contain his excitement. It had increased ten-fold when he had caught sight of her waiting by the bus stop where he had arranged they should meet. As she climbed into his car, he could feel himself getting an erection. He had to pull the hem of his T-shirt over his lap to hide the bulge.

He could recall the conversation as though it had just happened.

‘Didn’t think you were going to come.’

‘I promised I’d be here, didn’t I?’ she’d smiled back at him. ‘Though I don’t know what I’m going to say when Mum and Dad find out I’ve skipped an exam.’

‘That’s not going to matter once we get this portfolio done. A modelling agency will soon snap you up and the money you’re going to earn will take care of any exam marks,’ he’d lied.

In the barn he’d watched her change out of her school clothes, blushing with embarrassment, and managed to shoot several frames of her undressing before she stopped him. She’d put a hand over his lens, with the other arm across her chest, covering the pretty pink cotton bra that hid her small, firm breasts.

He’d laughed and tried to pull her arm away but she’d resisted and got angry.

‘I want to go home,’ she’d said. ‘That’s it. I’ve had enough.’ And she’d put her blouse back on.

That’s when he’d slapped her across the face. He couldn’t believe it when she’d slapped him back. The surprise made him drop his camera.

He’d snatched off his belt without thinking and wound it so quickly round her neck that she barely registered what was happening. He pulled it so tight that the veins at the sides of her temples had swollen and he feared they would burst.

The rest was a blur and over as quickly as it had started. All he could remember was standing over her body, staring at the bloodied mess he had created.

As he had surveyed his work, a surge of power shot through him, tightening every sinew in his body.

He tried to recall if the rush was the same as before and decided this time it had felt better. His erection remained, even when she had breathed her last.

The noise in the background brought him back to the present, and as the vision in his mind blurred, he felt his chest fill with a sense of urgency and excitement again. There was movement in his groin. He was getting erect just thinking about what he’d done.

From the kitchen, he could hear the domestic sounds of his mother getting their evening meal ready. He pointed the remote at the TV and switched over to the other local news channel to see if the story was being aired there, too.

 

Fascinated by this intriguing case? Keep reading now!

 

CHAPTER ONE

 

It was a foggy evening in late November. The gas lamps shone like misty balls of light and the horses slipped on the wet streets. Well-dressed Londoners wrapped mufflers over noses and mouths as they rushed home to supper in their warm houses. And four ragged boys, followed by a large dog, emerged from a filthy cellar below the pavement. Alfie grinned and the tight knot of fear in his stomach relaxed — Mutsy always made him laugh. His brother Sammy had just hit the high note of the song and the big, hairy dog joined in immediately, sitting on his back legs with his two front paws in the begging position, his nose lifted towards the sky and howling like a high-pitched fiddle. A crowd was beginning to gather — it always did when Sammy and Mutsy sang.

On this dark and murky evening, Alfie was relying on dog and boy being the focus of all attention. He had set everything up very carefully. Sammy, with Mutsy beside him, was standing on the corner just outside the Covent Garden Theatre, while Alfie himself was about a hundred yards away. Jack and Tom, their two cousins, were also in place.

‘He’s blind, poor little boy,’ said a woman’s voice, and Alfie heard the chink of pennies into the tin plate at Sammy’s feet. Now was the moment to put his plan into action. The shoppers were gathered around Sammy and Mutsy; nobody would be looking at Alfie.

And then he had a piece of good luck — there was a loud pop and a hissing sound, and a smell of gas floated down on the fog. One of the gas lamps had gone out. Slowly and quietly, Alfie moved until he was underneath that lamp-post. This would be a good place to lurk unseen. The lamplighter had already shouldered his ladder and gone home, so the corner between Bow Street and Russell Street would now stay dark till morning.

Alfie’s stomach was already empty, but it tightened even more with tension. This was his plan and it had to succeed. He licked his lips as he glanced around. Jack, his twelve-year-old cousin, was in his place, across the road, just ready to grab the horse’s head. Eleven-year-old Tom, Jack’s brother, was almost invisible, lurking in the shadowed doorway of a watchmaker. He would have his peashooter ready. Alfie could rely on him. Tom and Jack both had steady nerves and Tom never missed a shot.

Now! The moment they were waiting for! The horse-drawn van turned from Russell Street into Bow Street and a mouth-watering smell of newly baked bread floated above the sour, coal-smoke stench of the fog. Alfie braced himself. He saw the horse rear and kick — Tom had done his task with the peashooter. Alfie didn’t even look towards Jack — his cousin could always handle horses. Instantly he dashed to the back of the van.

It was all working. He could hear Jack’s voice shouting, ‘It’s all right, Mister, I’ve a hold of him.’ Now Alfie had his hand in the back of the van. The loaf was so soft and warm he could almost taste it. Tom was coming towards him. Between them, with luck, they would be able to snatch enough bread to last them for the next few days. No alarm was shouted; the crowd continued to listen as Sammy broke into his comic song, ‘The Catsmeat Man’.

Suddenly Alfie felt an arm around his neck, throttling him. He dropped the loaf and wheeled around to see a navy-blue uniform with the number twenty-two on the collar.

A gruff voice said, ‘You come along with me, lad.’

Alfie did not struggle. There was no point. The policeman had a firm grip of one arm now and was dragging him along the street. He tried a gentle wriggle — perhaps he could leave his jacket behind — but it was no good. Alfie knew where they were going. The Bow Street Police Station was next door to Bow Street Magistrates’ Court. He would probably be in front of the bench in less than half an hour.

What would be the sentence? Most likely, three months’ hard labour — that was the usual. He had never been in prison himself, but he knew many boys who had. Hard labour meant breaking stones, running on the treadmill or sewing mailbags for twelve hours of the day, and no one was allowed to say a word to any other prisoner. That was the worst of all, one boy had told Alfie.

And what would happen to Sammy, his blind brother, and to their two cousins who shared their cellar? Without Alfie, they might all starve. He was the one who organised everything, who had seen the comic possibilities in Mutsy with his large paws and his fringe hanging over his eyes, and the one who, until this moment, had kept them all out of trouble.

‘In you go.’ The blue light outside Bow Street Police Station gleamed through the fog. ‘Bet you’ve stolen that muffler, you little thief.’ The constable jerked at the scarf around his neck. ‘And that waistcoat, too!’ By now they were inside and Alfie was pushed into an office. His bare feet felt the smoothness of the tiled floor.

Carefully he removed his cap and smoothed down his dark curls. ‘It doesn’t matter about looking poor and having ragged trousers as long as you are polite.’ It seemed like yesterday that his mother had said that, but she had been dead for two years.

The police station was a small, one-storey building. There was an outer room, where three constables stood at tall desks and made notes in books, and an inner room beyond a green painted door. A man with a newspaper came out of that door and immediately PC 22 grabbed Alfie by the arm and hauled him into the back room, giving a quick knock on the still-open door. Alfie felt his legs go weak. He would soon know the worst.

‘Caught stealing a loaf of bread from the evening delivery van, Inspector. Make a bow to Inspector Denham, you young ruffian. Shall I take him into the court? The magistrates are still sitting.’

‘Yes,’ said the inspector absentmindedly. He was studying some papers on his desk, turning them over and knitting his dark bushy eyebrows over them. Then he waved his hand. ‘No!’ he said abruptly. ‘Just leave him with me, Constable, will you.’

What did he want? wondered Alfie, looking at the inspector as the door closed behind the constable. He was a small man to be in charge of all of these burly constables who could be seen every day, patrolling Bow Street and Covent Garden. The inspector looked briefly down each piece of paper, before putting it into one of three neat piles on the desk and going on to the next.

The room was cold in spite of the coal fire burning in a small metal grate. Alfie’s sharp eyes noticed that one of the sash cords was broken and the window was sagging down on one side, allowing the damp, freezing air to seep into the little room. He stayed very still, looking attentively at the inspector as he shuffled his papers. When he looked up, Alfie saw that he had a pair of keen eyes, as black as Alfie’s own.

‘Live around here, do you?’ The inspector’s tone was casual.

‘That’s right.’ Alfie wasn’t going to give any of his gang away.

‘Know the St Giles district?’

Alfie nodded. St Giles, a district of tumbledown wood-built houses, where a single room could house up to four families, was a good five-minute walk from Alfie’s cellar on Bow Street itself.

‘Come with me.’ Inspector Denham was on his feet. He opened a door at the back of the office and led the way down a long, dimly lit corridor. There was a damp coldness in the air and a strange smell.

‘In here.’ Inspector Denham took a large key from the bunch at his waist and opened a door. The room was almost in darkness; there was just one small, high window. It showed as a pale rectangle on the wall, but gave little light. Inspector Denham clanged the door shut behind them and walked confidently forward. Alfie followed him, his heart thumping.

‘Ah, that’s better.’ There was a hiss and a sudden smell of gas, the noise of a match striking, and then the flame sprang up. Alfie took a step backwards, then recovered himself and stepped forward again.

The room was a small one, but it had three occupants. All were lying on high narrow iron beds, covered by a sheet. All were very still. Alfie sniffed the air and knew that the smell was death. He had smelled it often enough. He swallowed once and felt the sweat break out on the palms of his hands.

Why had the inspector brought him in here with these dead men?

Inspector Denham went swiftly to the bed at the far side of the room and turned back the top of the sheet from the face.

Alfie took in a long breath as quietly as he could. ‘I know him,’ he said, trying to sound indifferent. ‘I’ve seen him before.’ He examined the purple, swollen face with its faded ginger moustache and sideburns.

‘Know his name?’

‘Mr Montgomery… Mr Montgomery from Bedford Square. Up Bloomsbury way.’ Alfie went a little nearer. He had been shocked at first to see a man that he knew, but he had recovered now. He had seen quite a lot of dead bodies in his lifetime.

‘When did you see him last?’ Inspector Denham was standing in front of the body, slightly blocking Alfie’s view.

‘Last night in Monmouth Street.’

‘Alone?’

‘No, he had a girl with him.’ Alfie winked, trying to look like a man of the world. He wanted to impress this inspector.

‘What’s the girl’s name?’ The question came quickly.

‘Don’t know.’ He did know, but Alfie didn’t think that he was going to tell it to Inspector Denham. Betty couldn’t have murdered this fellow — he wasn’t a very big man, but he was at least twice her weight. Alfie was sorry that he had mentioned a girl now, but no doubt the inspector already knew about this. Alfie edged a bit nearer to the body.

‘Been garrotted,’ he said. Might as well show the inspector that he wasn’t stupid. ‘Look at the mark of the wire, there under the chin.’

‘I had noticed,’ said Inspector Denham dryly. ‘We found him in Monmouth Street early this morning.’ He leaned over the man and pulled the sheet down the whole way. The body was still dressed: expensive frock coat, colourful waistcoat and over them both a greatcoat of heavy dark wool; check trousers and polished boots finished the outfit. A heavy walking stick was lying beside him. The pockets of the greatcoat were pulled out and protruded at right angles from the body, the clean white linings showing up brightly under the flaring gas lamp.

‘Robbed, as you see.’ Inspector Denham’s voice was neutral.

‘Nah.’ Alfie gave him a quick grin. He was beginning to understand this policeman. He was testing Alfie. ‘Never.’

‘Oh? Why not?’ There was still no trace of expression in the policeman’s voice.

‘Why not?’ Alfie decided to play along, though he guessed that the inspector knew the truth as well as he did; the man didn’t look stupid. ‘Why take the stuff from his greatcoat pockets and leave the watch? I can see the chain. It’s still on him. Can I touch him?’

‘Just the clothes.’

Alfie leaned over and, with the sensitive fingers of an accomplished pickpocket, he pulled out a heavy gold watch from below the man’s waistcoat.

‘There you are,’ he said. He stroked the rounded sides of the gold case, then turned it over and looked with interest at the marks on the back. ‘In his fob pocket, the usual place. Any thief would look there first. This is a good watch. He was quite a swell, always.’

‘Perhaps the thief forgot about the watch,’ suggested Inspector Denham with an expressionless face. ‘Out of sight, out of mind, they say.’

‘Nah! Never! In any case, why leave the boots? They were in sight. Why not pull them off and take them? I know plenty on Monmouth Street that would give me —’ Alfie suddenly remembered that he was talking to an officer of the law, ‘at least … I’ve heard that you can get a good price for a pair of boots like that. Nah, this were no thief; this were a toff that garrotted him and then wanted to pretend that he did it just to rob him. I’d lay a bet that Mr Montgomery had nothing at all in those greatcoat pockets. Most of the gents these days keep their money in their trousers or waistcoat pockets. It’s obvious to anyone that this were no thief that done this,’ he finished.

The inspector said nothing, but Alfie could see an expression of satisfaction on his face. He searched his mind for more memories of Mr Montgomery. The man had returned from India a few months before and Alfie had taken a great interest in the stories about him that Sarah, the scullery maid in the Montgomery house, had told the boys. But would it be safe to talk about these to the inspector?

‘What about the ring?’ Alfie asked suddenly. ‘He always wore a great big diamond ring. I’ve seen it flashing.’

One hand was half-tucked under the body; ignoring the inspector’s order, Alfie reached across and pulled it out. The ring was still there.

‘It’s embedded in his flesh. He’d put on a lot of weight since he first had that ring,’ the inspector said indifferently, watching Alfie closely.

‘Most people that I know — most thieves that I’ve heard of, would have taken finger and all to get a ring like that,’ said Alfie firmly. ‘It would be worth a lot, that ring, wouldn’t it?’

‘I’d say so.’ The inspector sounded almost friendly. Alfie said no more, though, and Inspector Denham, having turned out the gaslight, ushered him through the door and locked it firmly behind them. Even when they were back in the office again, Alfie still kept silent, his mind busily working. What was the inspector up to?

‘What do you know about Mr Montgomery and his household?’ It had taken a few minutes for Inspector Denham to make up his mind, but now his tone was sharp, and somehow different.

Alfie sat up a little straighter and assumed a businesslike air. He had been about to deny knowing anything more about the dead man, but then changed his mind. It occurred to him that he had passed some sort of trial in there, in that room where the police kept their dead bodies, and he was anxious to retain Inspector Denham’s good opinion.

‘There’s him and his missus, and his son who’s a young toff — doesn’t do no work, I’ve heard — and they’ve got a butler, a coachman, a cook, a housekeeper, a parlour maid and a scullery maid — and some other servants, I suppose.’

‘How do you know all this?’

Alfie hesitated. Sarah often fed him on the leftovers from the Montgomery meals and he didn’t want to betray her, but after a quick glance at Inspector Denham he changed his mind. The inspector, he reckoned, might be willing to forget about the bread van if Alfie was able to assist him.

Alfie and his gang had known Sarah for about six months now. After hearing his brother Sammy singing in the streets, Mrs Montgomery had got her coachman to bring him to the house at Bedford Square, where she had played the piano while Sammy sang some of his songs. Afterwards, Sarah had been told by the parlour maid to escort Sammy home. She had stayed for half an hour in their cellar, entertaining them all with her stories of the Montgomery household and Mr Montgomery, and how he had been in India for years while his wife, who didn’t like India, lived with their son in London. Since then, Sarah had visited the cellar every time she was allowed out to go to night classes or in her free time.

‘I know the scullery maid.’ Alfie had made up his mind that there could be no harm in admitting that.

‘Good.’ There was no mistaking the satisfaction in the man’s voice, and Alfie began to feel quite interested.

‘Do you know anything about Mr Montgomery’s earlier life?’ the inspector continued.

‘He’d been out in India until six months ago, and that’s where he made all his money. His missus and his son lived here in London all the time that he was away,’ said Alfie.

The inspector nodded. ‘That’s right and that’s where you come in. The son, Mr Denis Montgomery, thinks that his father has been murdered because of something that happened in India. It appears that when Mr Montgomery was out there, a native Indian, working on the tea plantation owned by him and his partner, Mr Scott, was found guilty of stealing a bag of coins and was hanged.’

Alfie shrugged his shoulders; these things happened all the time. In London, when his grandfather was young, they used to hang anyone who stole goods over the value of a shilling. Why should India be any different?

‘Now, the butler at the Montgomery household says that he saw a young Indian, not much more than a boy, hanging around their house yesterday. He told Mr Denis about that. It’s possible that the hanged man’s son came to seek his revenge. There are two ships from the East India Company in dock at the moment, just down river from here.’

‘And you want me to sniff around and see if I can come across any sign of this Indian, that right?’

‘And anything else that you can find out. Anything about the household — the servants, I mean. Also, anything that passers-by might have seen, either in Bedford Square or in Monmouth Street.’

So that was what Inspector Denham had been after.

‘What’s in it for me?’ It was always worth asking, Alfie thought.

‘Perhaps, if you’re lucky, the constable might forget what is written down in his notebook about this evening’s incident with the bread delivery van.’

Alfie brushed that aside. ‘Any reward?’ he asked. Although he couldn’t read, he had a sharp eye for figures, and the wall outside Bow Street Police Station was papered with posters offering rewards.

‘There is a reward of one hundred pounds put forward by Denis Montgomery,’ said Inspector Denham cautiously. ‘It might be that you could earn yourself some small share in that. Here’s a shilling for you in the meantime.’ He got briskly to his feet and opened a second door at the back of the room. ‘You can go out this way, unless you want to see the constable again.’ There was a suspicion of a wink as Alfie walked past, and then the door slammed shut behind him.

Alfie felt quite dazed and for a moment he hardly knew where he was. Then he realised that he was in Crown Court, a small, square, empty space between the police station and the magistrates’ court. He gave a quick glance over his shoulder and then ran as fast as he could. He didn’t want to linger; he’d had a narrow escape and the sooner he was away from there, the better.

 

Out in crowded Bow Street, Jack was carefully sweeping horse-droppings from the roadway so that a stout, middle-aged lady could cross. Alfie stood and watched him while his heart slowed down. Jack and Tom’s mother had died when Tom was born and Alfie’s mother had taken in her sister’s two children. No one knew where their father was. On the whole, the cousins got on well. Jack was easy-going and good-natured and always willing for Alfie to be the boss, and Tom, though he could at times be moody and resentful of Alfie’s authority, could usually be persuaded by Jack to do what Alfie wanted.

Despite Jack’s efforts with the broom, the woman was holding her purple dress high above her ankles, showing a frill of white petticoat. The road was even dirtier than usual because of the fog that had lasted three days already. Alfie noticed that the woman was carrying her basket securely tucked under her shawl, away from the reach of the pickpockets who did such a good trade around the Covent Garden fruit and vegetable market. Her mouth was tight with distrust as she glanced around.

Alfie stood well back from her while she stepped on to the pavement, dropping something into Jack’s hand and then hurrying down the street.

‘You got out, then.’ Jack sounded off-hand, but Alfie could detect a note of relief in his cousin’s voice and there was a grin on his freckled face.

‘How much did she give you?’ Alfie did not want to talk about Inspector Denham out in the street.

Jack opened his hand. ‘A farthing,’ he said with disgust. ‘I thought it would be a halfpenny at least. The old—’

‘Look.’ Alfie, a smile widening his mouth, gave a nod towards the woman.

A one-horse gig, driven at high speed down Bow Street, had sent a spray of semi-liquid horse dung all over the woman’s skirt, even neatly landing a fair-sized dollop on the very crown of her stiff-brimmed bonnet.

Alfie and Jack clutched each other, shaking with merriment at the sight of the woman’s disgusted face as she scrubbed at her skirts with a small handkerchief. It felt so good to laugh again after the worries and tension of the past hour that they went on for several minutes.

‘Come on,’ said Alfie, still chuckling with mirth. He threw his arm over Jack’s shoulders, eyeing the brightly lit butcher’s shop across the road. ‘Let’s get some sausages and a loaf of bread. I’ve got a shilling.’

At that moment, a carriage drawn by four lively horses swung around the corner from Long Acre into Bow Street. The oil lamp, dangling from the back of its roof, flared suddenly, lighting up the shadowy doorway of the house across the road.

Brown-skinned and dressed in dark clothes, his white turban grey with the London dirt, the young boy lurking there had remained invisible up to that moment against the murky wooden door. Now he was sharply illuminated, staring across the road at the two boys. It was unusual to see an Indian in the West End of London and Alfie had no doubt that this must be the boy that the inspector had been speaking of — the boy under suspicion for the murder of Mr Montgomery.

How long had the Indian boy been standing there, his fist clutched over something hidden? Had he seen Alfie come out of the police station? Did he guess the inspector’s commission?

Alfie swallowed twice, almost feeling the bite of a garrotting wire around his throat.

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 Chapter 1

 

‘This —’ The owner of the house cleared his throat and tried again. ‘This is highly irregular.’ He tapped the letter from Whitmore Photographic. ‘The proprietor assures me that he will personally be taking Flora’s portrait.’

Julia McAllister glanced at the four-year-old, sitting bolt upright in her best pink taffeta dress. A froth of ringlets cascaded over her shoulders, and the silver locket round her neck twinkled in the meagre light. With her favourite dolls cradled in her arms, three of them in each, you could be forgiven for thinking the little mite was still alive.

‘My employer, poor man, his health took a turn for the worse.’ Julia flashed a tortured smile. ‘His heart, I’m afraid. Notoriously unreliable.’

‘Yes, but even so.’ Her client’s eyebrows met when he frowned. ‘A woman?’

Julia slotted the plate holder into her camera. She bit her lip, and reminded herself that this was just a job, another routine portrait — that she should knuckle down, take the picture, forget the subject was a baby.

‘Mr. Whitmore would not have entrusted me with such a sensitive task,’ she assured the grieving father, ‘unless he had every confidence in my ability.’

‘For my part —’ his wife’s voice was little more than a croak — ‘I’m comforted that a member of my own sex is looking after Flora. Women,’ she added shakily, ‘are infinitely more sympathetic, so come, dear.’ She pulled her husband’s sleeve. ‘Let us leave Miss McAllister in peace.’

Mrs., Julia wanted to correct. It’s Mrs. McAllister. But the death of their only child was testing the couple’s strength, their marriage and, judging from the cross on the mantelpiece that had been laid flat, their faith in Jesus Christ. Like families everywhere, too much in life had been taken for granted. It was only when the flame was snuffed, in this case without warning, that it was driven home how little they had to remind them of their loved ones. They wanted this picture to cling to and cherish.

‘Rest assured,’ she said, ‘I will do your daughter proud.’

Alone in the parlour, Julia took a series of deep breaths and forced herself to block out the red flock walls that threatened to close in, the gagging scent of lilies, the silence of the grandfather clock, whose pendulum had been removed and wouldn’t be replaced until Flora lay in her grave. How sad. How desperately tragic. When your husband dies, you become a widow. When your parents die, you become an orphan. Yet there’s no word to describe someone who loses a child.

To calm her nerves, Julia followed her familiar ritual of running her hand over the Spanish mahogany case of her camera, inhaling the leathery tang of the bellows and fingering the handmade dovetail joints. (None of those factory-made monstrosities, thank you very much.) By the time she’d given the brass fittings one last unnecessary polish, she felt in control, and disappearing under the heavy dark cover, she examined the image. After all this time, she hadn’t grown used to seeing the world upside down, but there, now — a quick tweak to the focus, a slight tilt to the left, a touch of back swing and —

Mother of God!

The girl’s hand moved.

Nonsense. It must have been a trick of the candles, and that was the problem with having the curtains drawn and the mirrors draped in black. The shadows played havoc.

There! It moved again!

Julia sloughed the sheet from her shoulders and squinted. Impossible. Flora fell downstairs and snapped her neck. In fact, the only thing holding her upright was a metal clamp under her pretty lace collar, and a rope, artfully hidden by dolls, tying the girl to the chair. Julia should know. She’d put them there.

No, no, no. The dead don’t —

‘Ow!’ a voice squealed.

‘Were you trying to steal that locket?’ Julia grabbed the young boy hiding behind the body.

‘Lemme go, you’re pinching!’

‘Did you think I wouldn’t spot a third hand? A third hand, I might add, caked with a six-inch layer of grime.’

‘I said lemme go!’

‘This will be a double exposure in every sense, if you don’t quit squawking.’ Julia examined the urchin in front of her. Eight, was he? Nine? ‘How did you get in?’

‘Door’s open, innit.’

Of course. The front door had been left partly open for mourners to enter without jarring the nerves already stretched past breaking point.

‘So you thought you’d sneak in and steal the locket that probably contains a clipping of her hair, which is all her mother has to remember her only daughter by?’

The defiance crept out of the boy’s face. ‘You gonna report me to the rozzers?’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because these are good people, who don’t need to know that some stray urchin crept in their house, defiled their daughter’s body and was caught stealing her precious locket. They’ve suffered tragedy enough, and I won’t have you adding to their misery.’

‘Wotcha gonna do, then?’

‘I am going to take this girl’s portrait, that’s what I’m going to do, and you, sir, are going to help me.’

‘Me? I don’t know nuffin’ about photographs.’

Julia fluffed the girl’s lace collar to hide the mucky handprint on the taffeta. ‘You don’t need to. Just hold the curtain open — the left one if you please — to throw some decent light in the room.’

‘Like that?’

‘Exactly like that.’ She pressed the shutter release, changed the plate, took another, then another, then another.

‘Why d’you take so many?’ He sniffed, and wiped his nose on his sleeve. ‘It’s not like she’s gonna move and throw the focus out.’

‘For someone who professes to know nothing about photography, you seem remarkably well informed. However, your expertise is no longer required, young man. Time for you to leave, preferably in the same covert manner in which you arrived.’

‘Can’t I —?’

‘Shoo.’

Julia packed up her camera, collapsed her tripod and dismantled the contraption that was holding Flora upright, before packing her accessories back in the case and promising the grieving couple that Whitmore Photographic would be giving Flora’s portrait the utmost priority.

Outside, Julia felt the weight lift from her. After a month of non-stop drizzle that had combined with the smoke from the factories to form a choking, brown, sulphurous stew, the sun was a welcome sight, and Julia wasn’t alone in her joy. Half the population of Oakbourne, it seemed, had turned out to celebrate. The street shimmered with jewel-coloured silks, wide hats festooned with feathers, wasp waists, and shoes with toes so pointed they could put an eye out. Impressive moustaches paraded beneath dark derby hats. Parasols twirled, hansom cabs rattled, and (shock, horror!) could that really be ladies riding bicycles in bloomer suits? Flower girls proffered violets, carnations and stocks a penny a bunch, puppies chased their own tails and a boy played a harp taller than himself to an enraptured audience on the corner.

Stopping at the strawberry barrow, Julia smelled her scrawny assistant before she saw him. ‘You again.’

‘Seeing as how I helped out back there, I thought you might wanna give me sixpence for me troubles.’

‘How about I give you a clip round the ear?’

‘Cow,’ he muttered. Julia checked her black beaded purse. Strangely, it was still there. ‘Threepence, then.’

Dear Lord, give me strength. ‘Suppose we say no pence, and I don’t call the police?’

‘Suppose I went up your chimney and cleaned it?’

‘You’re too old, you’d get stuck, and by the time you’d starved to death and your skeleton dropped out, I’d have died from frostbite, waiting. Go away.’

‘I’ll settle for a ha’penny.’

Julia pulled the boy out of the path of a hackney cab and pointed with her strawberry in the opposite direction to which she was headed. ‘Go. Now.’

‘S’pose I said I wasn’t stealing nuffin’. S’pose I told you, I just wanted to see what a pretty girl looks like dead, coz the only corpses I seen are under the bridges by the canal, and them’s anything but pretty.’

Against her better judgment, Julia gave him her last strawberry. It disappeared whole, green bits, stalk, and all. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Bug.’

‘Bug?’

A grubby shoulder shrugged. ‘Short for Bugger Off, which is what most people —’

‘No explanation required. In fact, I can well see the attraction in offering that particular piece of advice, but tell me — Bug — when was the last time you took a bath?’

‘What’s it to you?’

‘Personally, very little.’ Julia set down her clutter of camera, tripod, cases and clamps. ‘In terms of community service, however, I feel it only fair to remedy the situation.’

Grabbing him by the collar with one hand and the seat of his moth-eaten pants with the other, Julia dropped Bug in the horse trough.

The resulting yells were more than satisfactory. Even if the language wasn’t.

But it was little Flora’s face that stayed with Julia as she pushed through the crush of Cadogan Street and into Westgate Road. Requests for post-mortem photographs — memento mori, as they were popularly called — were becoming more and more common, and this was by no means the first that Julia had taken. Some of her subjects were old, well into their eighties, some were children, a few already laid out in their coffin. Rather memorably, one old chap had begun to decay.

For the sake of authenticity, some of her clients she propped standing up, some with their heads in their hands, some leaning back with a newspaper as though they’d nodded off in mid-read. One lady the family had wanted sitting at a table laid with glassware, cutlery and plates, as though waiting for her dinner guests. Many, like little Flora, had their eyes open. With others, she painted their eyelids to make it look like they were posing for the camera. She perched dogs on their laps. (Stuffed, of course — live animals don’t sit still long enough for the exposure). Several were arranged with their entire families around them and on one notable occasion, it had been impossible to tell which of the eight was the corpse.

None — not one — of those subjects had affected her like this.

Perhaps it was because Flora was an only child, and the mother was of an age when she was unlikely to conceive again. Perhaps it was the dignity with which the couple bore their grief. Perhaps it was the little girl herself, taken in the blink of an eye. Either way, this morning left a nasty taste in Julia’s mouth. One that even the reddest, ripest strawberries couldn’t take away.

‘Ah. The lady photographer, I presume?’

Julia eyed up the man waiting outside her shop, set down her equipment and proceeded to unlock the door. He didn’t look bereaved, was too old to be getting married, and too young to have a daughter needing a wedding recorded for posterity. In fact, in his smart grey lounge suit, derby hat and cocky air, she wouldn’t mind betting he wanted to commission a portrait of himself. Recorded for posterity.

‘What exactly are you wanting, Mr —?’

‘Collingwood.’ For all the width of his smile, it didn’t reach his eyes. Eyes, the artist in her noted, the same hue as his suit. ‘Inspector. Detective Inspector Collingwood, of the Boot Street Police Station. You’d be Miss —?’

‘Mrs.’ Julia hoped that stacking her equipment would excuse not shaking hands. Shaking being the operative word. ‘It’s Mrs. McAllister,’ she said. ‘Now what can I help you with, Inspector? An official police photograph, taken in the station?’

‘Not exactly.’ He walked slowly round the shop, examining the frames on display, the portraits hanging in the window, the showcase of photos, the little china dogs on sale as a side-line. ‘Does the name Eleanor Stern mean anything to you?’

Relief washed over Julia, leeching the strength from her knees — its place instantly taken by a new surge of anxiety. Nellie, Nellie, what have you done now?

‘Can’t say it does.’

‘Lily Atkins?’

An image flashed through Julia’s head. Black stockings drawn over chubby knees. Enormous breasts. The coquettish twist to Lily’s lips as she tweaked her own nipple.

‘Again, no, doesn’t ring a bell.’

‘Hm.’ Collingwood paced a bit more. He stared out of the window at the Common, where lovers strolled arm in arm beneath the oaks, ladies of a certain age walked their Pomeranians, and nannies in uniform pushed perambulators as they eyed the soldiers from the corner of their eye. ‘Bridget O’Leary, though. Surely you know her?’

‘Sorry…’ No smile was ever more apologetic. ‘Then again, a lot of ladies have their portraits taken, Inspector. I could check the ledger, if you like?’

‘That won’t be necessary.’ The pacing changed from clockwise to anti-clockwise. ‘Mr. Whitmore.’ He ran his hand across a silver frame with embossed cherubs on the corners. ‘He left you this business when he died, is that correct?’

‘He did.’

‘Yet four years later, you haven’t changed the name above the shop, and still pretend to clients that Samuel Whitmore’s alive?’

If it had been anyone else, she would have passed that off as respect to her benefactor’s generosity. Unfortunately, there are only so many lies you can tell the police.

‘Pretend is a strong word, Inspector. As a woman fighting to survive, not only in commerce but in what is very much a man’s world, I find it simpler not to disabuse them.’

‘Of course.’ Collingwood switched his derby from his left hand to his right, then back again. ‘And you’re not familiar with the names Lily Atkins, Bridget O’Leary and Eleanor, more commonly known as Nellie, Stern?’

‘I thought we’d already agreed I am not.’

‘Had we? Because these photographs were found in their rooms.’

One by one, he laid them on the walnut counter like a deck of cards. All three were along the lines of the image that had flashed through Julia’s mind a moment before. Although in Nellie’s case, perhaps a little more so.

‘Inspector!’ Julia swept them off the counter. ‘How dare you bring such filth into my premises!’

Something twitched at the side of his mouth as he bent to retrieve them. With luck, it was indigestion. ‘My apologies if the content offends you, Mrs. McAllister, but you notice that, on the reverse of these prints, is your stamp.’

Damn. She never put her address on the back of any incriminating — Wait. Whitmore Photographic? In her distinctive purple ink…?

‘I have no idea how that got there.’ And that was the truth. ‘But as far as I’m aware, no law has been broken in either posing for pornographic photographs, or taking them.’

‘Quite so. The crime lies in the possession and distribution of lewd material, although it piques my interest that you’re aware of this fact.’

A trickle of sweat snaked down Julia’s backbone. ‘You wouldn’t believe the requests I receive from certain members of the public.’

‘Hm.’ Collingwood’s grey eyes — wolf’s eyes — held hers for what seemed like two days, but was probably only a couple of seconds. She swore she heard the dust motes hitting the ground. ‘Your husband.’

‘James.’

‘Where might I find him?’

‘The Sudan.’

One eyebrow rose. ‘Fighting in the campaign?’

‘Buried there.’ Julia smoothed her skirts. ‘Now then, Inspector, if you don’t mind, a grieving family needs a portrait of their daughter — the only image they will have to remember her by.’

‘I understand. You need to get to work.’

‘The matter is pressing, and despite my trade plate on the back of these vile photographs, I assure you, I know nothing of their provenance, and to be honest, I’m offended that you think me acquainted with strumpets such as these.’ She forced a smile. ‘On the other hand, I can see how you made the connection, and — well, far be it for me to tell you your job, but wouldn’t it be simpler to ask the girls about the pictures?’

‘Strange as it might seem, that thought occurred to me, as well.’ Collingwood picked up a china dog, a King Charles Spaniel as it happened, examined the pottery mark, then replaced it in the exact position in which he had found it. ‘The problem with that line of enquiry is that all three are dead.’

 ‘I am sorry to hear that.’ Nellie? Lily? Little Birdie…?

‘Murdered,’ Collingwood said quietly. ‘And from what I can gather, Mrs. McAllister, you work alone on these premises, without an assistant.’

Breathe … breathe…

‘I’m sure there’s a point to that observation, Inspector.’

‘My point, Mrs. McAllister, is that all roads lead to Rome.’ He picked up another china dog, a Skye Terrier, and proceeded to examine it. ‘And you, it would seem, are standing in the middle of the Forum.’

 

 

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CHAPTER 1

1805, North Riding, Yorkshire

Willoughby Rossington gulped the much needed ale down his dry throat, sighed with relief and placed the pewter tankard on the upturned barrel, which doubled as a table. It had been a difficult mission and a hard ride, but Willoughby had managed to flush out his prey, a highwayman, and after a chase across exposed moorland had relieved the country of one more specimen of murdering vermin. Now, he leaned patiently back on the settle, which lined the alcove next to the rear door of the inn, watching for the York coach to arrive.

Discreetly, Willoughby checked the shallow cut on his wrist. It had not been deep enough to sever the vein. Taking a clean strip of linen from a side pocket of his case, he tied it around his wrist as best as he could, using his free hand and teeth. This was not the first time he had been wounded. A pistol shot had caught him as he was chased across a French beach the previous summer. Fortunately, he had not been on his own and was tossed into the bottom of a fishing boat waiting to return him to England. His uncle had called it his initiation — a rite of passage. The slight scar above his left ear would apparently serve to remind him to take greater care. He slipped his wrist inside his cuff and smiled — no more scars, he thought.

A flurry of activity broke out in the yard.

“York coach!” A horn was heard as the vehicle approached.

Willoughby drained the tankard, ran a hand through his fair hair before replacing his hat, picked up his bag and headed out. He was anxious to be on his way again. The coach had made good time and was busy. A family with two young girls filled most of the inside, so it was with some relief that Willoughby found himself climbing on top. He settled as comfortably as he could, holding on firmly as the horses pulled their burden back out onto the open road, increasing in speed and momentum. Willoughby felt the invitation to attend his uncle, Lord Nathaniel Rossington, in his pocket and relaxed into the journey. The rush of air on his face made him smile. He anticipated his uncle’s next set of orders and relished the prospect of serving his country further.

The coach sped between the open moors and fields, slowing as it approached the ancient city of York. Willoughby was aware of the noise emanating from the lunatic asylum as they passed by. He swallowed, feeling pity for the poor souls trapped inside. That would be hell on earth to him, to be trapped like a caged animal, or worse, chained like a bear, perpetually baited.

The vehicle entered through the ancient stone archway and slowed to navigate the heavily soiled mire, making the going heavy as it passed through one of the ancient crumbling Barrs, ready to traverse the narrow lanes inside the old walls, where a mixture of wooden medieval homes with their jutted fronts gave way to the fashionable new stone buildings.

Willoughby looked on in wonder at the might of The Minster, the magnificent cathedral that dominated the cobbled together collections of buildings around it. No matter how often he saw it, he was always impressed. York was a place which confused and delighted his senses by turn. Contrasts were everywhere: putrid stench mingled with the more pleasant aromas of the market, rich living alongside the impoverished.

The coach came to a lumbering halt in front of an old inn. A sign swung dubiously above the door of a phoenix rising from the ashes. It was a sorry depiction of what should have been a lovely image, buffeted by the wind and heavy rain.

The innkeeper rushed around the corner and greeted his new arrivals, despite the pouring rain. All was a hive of activity. A small step was brought for the passengers to climb down onto. Willoughby knew that Lord Rossington would have been informed that the coach was in. He would be expected to report shortly but he was tempted to go inside and warm and dry himself.

 

Beth heard the excitement as word reached the inn that the coach was approaching. She had been preparing food in the back in readiness. In her dreams, she would get on the coach, dressed smartly in a travelling coat and be taken to some grand house where her husband or, more likely, her lover, would be awaiting her return. She put down her bread knife at the side of the stone sink, brushed her hands against her coarse skirts and glanced anxiously around her. Dotty, the cook, had gone into the back yard and Irwin Wilkes had left earlier on ‘business’. He would normally greet his guests and then return inside — to her. She grabbed her old shawl and pulled it around her shoulders, thinking that he must have been delayed.

Beth knew if she was caught shirking, she would be in for trouble, yet the yearning inside her made her desperate to see who the coach had brought in. The longing to escape the inn, her hellhole, was growing daily. She had nothing of her own and no one to go to, but the coaches came and went and each time her heart desired to go too. She was the bird lost in the ashes and she would take flight, unlike the bird that was trapped on a piece of wood swinging above the doorway.

She ran her fingers through her rich auburn hair, its fiery colour subdued by the need of a wash, though she kept it in relatively good order as she hated the knots. Beth peeped through the serving hatch just to make sure that Irwin Wilkes had not become distracted by his friends and was sitting on his favourite settle. No, he was hovering somewhere outside in his coat. He owned the inn and, although it hurt Beth to think it, he also owned her. Two seasons ago she had been bought by coin from the orphanage where she had grown up as a young woman to serve drinks at the inn. She had no say in the matter, no rights, and was told to be grateful her fate was not a worse one. It was go with Wilkes or live on the filthy streets.

Peering through the musty, smoke-filled tap room she could see the passengers alight from the coach. One man stood alone and slightly to the side. Beth watched him. He did not look as if he intended to enter, she noted with disappointment, but stood surveying the city. He was tall and from what she could see of his features, between high collar and tall hat, handsome. He looked to the inn, but despite the soaking he had had, he decided to move off.

He must be lost, Beth reasoned, so she straightened her shoulders and stepped forward, ready to cross the room and welcome the guests and offer the stranger her help before he decided to leave — if she could. There was something about him that drew her to him. He would fit the image of the man in her daydream well enough. Even though he was clearly a gentleman, she thought, a girl can dream, can’t she?

“Beth!”

She froze. Wilkes’s footsteps neared as his boots sounded upon the flagstone floor behind her. The weather must have dampened his enthusiasm for being a good host.

“Where d’you think you are off to, my girl?”

She could smell his musk. He spun her around, whipping the worn fabric from her shoulders. The word ‘my’ resonated in her head as the usual feelings of disgust stirred within her belly. He threw his coat onto a stool.

“Nowhere, Mr Wilkes. I was just a bit cold and I heard all the noise.” She tried to keep her voice calm as getting flustered only provoked his temper further. Her eyes were downcast; he took it as a sign of submission. She used it to shield the hatred that burned within them.

“Cold, eh,” he repeated, and chuckled. “Go on up to me room. I’ll be there shortly.” He slapped her rump as she stepped away.

Beth tried not to show him fear or her anger. She picked up her shawl; moth-bitten it may be, but it was hers, and then climbed the wooden steps to his room above, cursing her stupidity and dreading his idea of giving her warmth.

 

Willoughby stretched to his full height. He was tired, his wrist was sore, but he needed to see his uncle — then he could think about resting before setting off again on his next mission. He was in the north; he was so near to where his father had been murdered. Willoughby’s heart desired one mission more than any other: to investigate that ‘accident’. No one had been brought to justice. Five years later and he had proved to his uncle he could wheedle out vermin and be trusted, so why not now avenge his father’s death?

He approached the grand façade of the elegant terraced house. Willoughby had to stay level-headed; displays of emotion were not appreciated — ‘anger was to be challenged into action, not allowed to burn and destroy internally’. His uncle was full of such pearls of wisdom.

He lifted the brass knocker, then crashed it against the door and waited until a liveried servant opened it to him.

“Is my uncle at home?” Willoughby asked.

“Your uncle? May I have your card, sir?” The man spoke stiffly and held out a gloved hand.

Willoughby wondered if he was one of his uncle’s agents or just a household servant; either way, he acted like a pompous fool. Willoughby pulled the invitation from his pocket, returning it to its sender. It was his pass to a very different world — one in which he thrived. The man responded with a cursory look up and down as rain dripped off Willoughby’s greatcoat and onto the doorstep of the elegant house.

Willoughby met the man’s stare in challenge and made to step forward. It had been an uncomfortable journey and his patience was becoming worn. The servant closed the door on him, disappearing with the letter. Willoughby balled his fist and looked across the sodden road, waiting patiently, albeit reluctantly, to be allowed entry. A few minutes later the door reopened.

“My apologies, sir.” The man bowed low as he stepped back, allowing Willoughby to pass by him, whilst taking his hat and coat. “This way, if you please, sir.”

Willoughby followed him across a chequered floor and down a narrow corridor to a set of doors towards the back of the house. Beyond them was his uncle’s study. Immediately Willoughby entered, the doors were shut securely behind him, not one, but two sets separated by a good thick curved wall. This was a necessity, as his uncle could not afford to have his private discussions overheard by anyone.

Willoughby was surprised that the normally officious man was not sitting and looking imposingly at him from behind the large mahogany desk as was his habit. Instead, he stood silently gazing at a painting that adorned the wall above the marble fireplace. Immaculately dressed in a perfectly fitted black coat which accentuated his straight and noble posture, he held his hands clasped behind his back. “Do you know what this is, Willoughby?”

Willoughby sighed. Never a warm word of welcome, but he knew how to respond. “It is a seascape, Uncle.” Willoughby stared at it emotionless, almost mimicking his uncle’s dour manner until he saw a flash of annoyance showing in the older man’s eyes. “A stormy sea and a rescue boat being hauled into the water by the local villagers.” Willoughby admired the movement and energy within the painting. One could almost feel the tempest raging and the desperation of the people to launch the life-saving boat into the water.

“What else can you see? Where do you think it is set?” his uncle persisted, staring at him, waiting for Willoughby to look beyond the obvious. It was like a game, a grooming, which both his uncle and his father had played with him since he had been a child.

Willoughby stepped forward, relaxing his pose. He looked at every feature of the painting: the group of people at the water’s edge, the windmill behind a row of small fishermen’s houses, the firm flat sands, the high rugged headland in the distance and the menacing sea. “By the attire of the people and the geographical features of the land, I would say this is a fishing village on the remote north-east coast.” Willoughby glanced at his uncle, waiting for acknowledgement or approval.

“And what reasoning is behind this decision, Willoughby? Have you proof of a logical nature or is this just a wild guess — no more than a lucky whim?”

“No, Uncle, it is not a guess. The boats in the background are the cobles of the Yorkshire design. They land on the flat sandy beaches, cutting through the breakers. The sea is treacherously turbulent and that area is infamous for its wrecks. To the right are the ancient marshlands and dunes, whilst to the left, the steep jutting headland forms a dramatic feature. The boat is one of the new designs of ‘lifeboat’, which I believe has to be pulled manually down to the beach by the villagers in order to launch it successfully.”

His uncle released his hands, relaxing his stance and patted Willoughby firmly on his shoulder. “Excellent observations, Willoughby; you show some intelligence. I’m glad your time at Cambridge was not wasted; you have at least learnt to deduce. So tell me, why am I showing you this merciless place?” Nathaniel Rossington flicked the tails of his coat up into the air and rested against his desk.

“You wish me to go there, no doubt still wearing the robes of a priest and save the poor from the endless toil of their lives and their mortal souls from hell itself, Uncle?” Willoughby raised a cynical brow, as he knew Nathaniel was a sceptical man, a non-believer, a fact he kept very much to the closest family members to avoid unnecessary problems within the society with which he mixed.

“I would say they are beyond salvation and, personally, I should let them rot away within their own grimy existence.”

Willoughby was not surprised by the man’s sentiment, he had his sights set on saving a nation, apparently forgetting at times that the word represented common men eking out a ‘grimy existence’ and not just the land itself.

“However, I would also remind you that this is not a game anymore, Willoughby. It is as serious as life and death … yours included.” Nathaniel looked at Willoughby, whose gaze did not waver despite his uncle’s powerful withering stare. However, Willoughby did note the fleeting glint of amusement in the man’s eyes — a rare sight.

“There are treacherous men earning a lot of money in the region — corruption throughout and within the villages which has spread to the normally decent social strata. I need you in there.” He pointed to the painting, his manner intense. “Yes, don your priest’s garb and start preaching and listening to as many confessions as you can…”

“Uncle, I am not a priest. I have chosen a very different path now.” Willoughby spoke out defiantly, then instantly wished he had controlled his tongue. “Surely, I have proven to you that I would have been wasted in such a role when I refused to follow the path which was laid out for me by Uncle Jeremiah, God rest his soul. I would be better serving as a soldier — please, sir, allow me to hunt down Father’s murderers or obtain me a commission so that I may serve, with your blessing.”

“I am fully aware of what you are and what you are not. Unless you wish me to return you to ‘your initial path’ and insist that you are to be permanently planted in a respectable parish with a fat wife and several noisy brats to feed, you would do well to remember how much I do know about you, Willoughby James Rossington!” Nathaniel’s words were harsh, but as always, controlled. “You serve best where I place you. Your brother serves the King, you fight a very different battle and I need you here to do it!”

Willoughby nodded, annoyed that this man who had acted as a father to him when his own died prematurely always placed his duty first. More disastrous news had followed the next year when his elder uncle, Jeremiah, had perished in a riding accident. Nathaniel was totally devoted towards his King and country. He buried his pain deeply, though, Willoughby realised. Willoughby had been sent to many a dark place concerning his clandestine role. It had shown him a world very different from the old clubs of St James Street in London and the halls of Cambridge. Nathaniel was a man who demanded and expected nothing less than total obedience from those who served him, whether relative or not, and that had earned him Willoughby’s absolute respect.

Willoughby did not want to don the garb of the priesthood. He had his own faith, but preaching was something he found no comfort in. It irked him that he had been made to hide within the role in order to be of some use to his uncle. He should have been the soldier — Charles wanted to stay on the estate, but the uncles had insisted he fought for the family honour, leaving Willoughby’s path clear for the priesthood.

“You will win the hearts of one or two of the local people. Use your stealth, wit and common sense, but, Willoughby, remember this is no fool’s errand. We have reason to believe that the rot that has set in this area is deep and complex. Every one living there is as guilty as their neighbour of plying the trade. They will not break their ungodly ranks and speak out… Strangers are like foreigners to them, they live in greed and ignorance. Only last month, a riding officer nearly had what brains he possessed spilt from a broken skull after he came across a group of ‘fishermen’ moving a catch. It was not crabs they had plucked from the sea. The fool shouted warning before shooting!” Nathaniel shook his head. “You have two names to keep in your mind, and I demand that you make your initial contact with them as a priest, someone people will pass by, seeing the uniform and not the man, yet, hopefully, show respect and trust.”

Willoughby was surprised by the severity of the tone in his uncle’s orders.

“Go to Major Walter Husk, who has a temporary barracks in Whitby. He will brief you on the known smuggling activity along the coast north of Whitby, and then to Reverend Artemis Burdon of St Aidan’s at Ebton. He will take you in and give you a base from which to work. I do not want you to use the name ‘Rossington’. Our family name will be kept out of this. You travel as Reverend Mr Willoughby James. Make sure you conjure up a credible past-life, which does not link you back to the family or me. You are working incognito. Only Husk and Burdon will know the truth. Both are loyal to the Crown and…”

“My father’s murderers…” Willoughby’s face was instantly animated. It was on Ebton beach that the body of his father, Joshua, had been washed up. “Is it possible that Father’s murderers still walk free after nearly six years?” Each time Willoughby had requested to investigate it he had been turned away with other missions to attend to, keeping him far away from this part of the country. It was always with the promise that when the time was right, his turn would come. Now he needed to know if that time was here. Willoughby clenched his fists at his side as the years of frustration and training mixed with his eagerness to set off on his own personal quest grew.

“Of course it is possible, Willoughby!” Nathaniel stood tall and looked into Willoughby’s deep brown eyes as if analysing his private thoughts. “You need to put all personal issues aside. We both do. We are working for our country, for the very survival of our nation.” Nathaniel swallowed as if struggling to keep his composure. “We are at war with the French. The trade forgets its loyalties and anything is sold for the right price. If, and I mean if, there is a link between my brother’s early demise and the current tenuous situation, then I expect you to discover it and act accordingly. They went to ground, but have now risen stronger than ever. But remember this: King and country first, revenge last! Do I make myself clear?” Nathaniel raised his eyebrows.

“Yes, sir!”

“Oh, and one more thing to remember: the harbinger of evil can be both male or female. Your father was engaging in an affair as well as his ‘work’. It may have been the cause of his downfall.”

Willoughby’s attention had wandered to the painting, straining at the menacing sea and the headland beyond. He swallowed, for it must have been a cold and lonely death to die in those waters alone. At the mention of an affair, so calmly announced, Willoughby’s head shot back around to look at his uncle.

“Affair? With who?”

“I do not know who. You will not fall into the same trap, will you, my young priest?”

Willoughby was taken aback. He had never thought it possible that his father had had an affair, for his mother had died of a broken heart four years since.

Nathaniel patted him on the back firmly.

“Here is a purse. The sooner you go and pay your respects to your aunt, the sooner I shall have peace from her on this matter. I swear the woman can hear through the walls of a fortress. May your God be with you, and I hope you come back to us safely from this vipers’ nest, Willoughby.”

 

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Chapter One – 1891

When pathologist Jacob Bryce got to the third stab wound, he knew that it was not one of the ordinary back-alley robberies which constituted most of the murders in New York City’s notorious 4th Ward.

Most of the blood, concentrated around the woman’s chest and stomach, had coagulated into a thick skin, indicating that death had taken place several hours beforehand. Bryce had to use alcohol to clean and loosen the blood in order to view those first puncture wounds.

It was the practice at Bellevue hospital that whenever a body was brought in for autopsy one of the crime-scene detectives should also be present to pass on key information when queried. Bryce looked towards the attending detective, whose name he couldn’t recall and who still looked somewhat in shock.

‘What time did you first discover the body?’

‘Uh, we got there, myself and a colleague from Mulberry Street, at just before midnight.’

‘And the first people to discover the body — when might that have been?’

The detective briefly consulted his notes. ‘Another girl from the Riverway Hotel first noticed her in a side-alley forty minutes before we arrived.’

‘Much activity in the area that time of night?’

‘Yes. Quite busy still.’

Bryce nodded thoughtfully. Add on at most half an hour for her body to first be discovered then the two hours since midnight taken up with initial forensics at the crime-scene and transporting the body in an ambulance-wagon to Bellevue.

The deep gash to the side of the woman’s neck, severing the carotid artery, wouldn’t on its own have been unusual for a street robbery; it was the fact that it was combined with so many stab wounds — Bryce had counted eight so far. Blood flow from the neck-wound was less, indicating that the stomach wounds had come first.

By the time Bryce had located the fourteenth stab wound, he realized he was in unchartered waters; it was like nothing he’d seen before. The smell of body waste mixed with carbolic and alcohol was heavy in the air. The young detective was now even more wide-eyed and looked slightly nauseous, one hand going to his mouth.

Bryce noticed a small X marked on the woman’s left shoulder. He’d get a photo taken of it later. A keen follower of Virchow’s principal, Bryce had a neat line of glass jars prepared and labelled, ready — once they’d been initially examined and weighed — to take each of the body’s internal organs. But he soon discovered that two of those jars would go unfilled. He looked towards the detective.

‘Were any body parts removed from the scene? Perhaps bagged and taken elsewhere for examination … or inadvertently left at the crime scene?’

The detective looked flustered. ‘No. None that I know of.’

‘The scene was searched thoroughly — nothing left there?’

‘Yes. I’m sure it was.’

Bryce wondered whether the scavenging rats and dogs of the area might have run off with the woman’s liver and kidney. Half an hour? Unlikely in such a short period, but regardless the killer had first removed those organs. Yes, like nothing he’d seen before — although he had heard of something similar.

Bryce looked at the clock on the wall. Five hours before Inspector McCluskey was in his office for him to pass on the information.

 

‘Come now. This Darwin fellow was clearly deranged.’ Viscount Linhurst swirled his brandy balloon at London’s St James Club. ‘Evolved from monkeys? We’re clearly the far higher species.’ With a captive audience of two of London’s leading surgeons — Sir Thomas Colby and Andrew Maitland — he thought it an apt time to air such views.

‘You’d never guess it from any of my household staff,’ Maitland commented.

There was a light guffaw from Linhurst, but Colby remained serious. ‘I don’t know. I see the similarities daily in autopsies. Every single organ in the same place — liver, stomach, spleen — and every bone and joint the same, too, right down to the little finger.’ Colby held up a pinkie. ‘I wouldn’t discount it so hastily if I were you.’

‘I’m not convinced.’ Linhurst tapped his forehead. ‘It’s all here, you see. And Darwin hasn’t adequately explained how a monkey could possibly —’ Linhurst broke off as a club usher approached.

‘I apologize for the intrusion, gentleman, but there’s an urgent call for Sir Thomas.’

Colby unfolded the note held out on a silver tray. ‘Sorry. Excuse me a moment.’

He followed the usher towards the vestibule call booth and at the other end Police Commissioner Grayling wasted little time with preamble.

‘There’s been another one.’ Silence. Grayling wasn’t sure if it was purely shock or Colby hadn’t immediately made the link. He added: ‘Similar to the other eight.’

‘Where? Whitechapel again?’

‘No. You’d hardly credit it when I tell you. It’s across the sea: New York.’

But Colby wasn’t that surprised. With the last murder more than a year ago now the supposition was either that the Ripper was imprisoned, dead, or had moved on.

‘Who is handling the investigation there?’

‘McCluskey.’ Octave lower, derisory. ‘But, no matter — you’ll need to go over as soon as possible.’

‘I see. I hazard he didn’t request my involvement.’

‘No. I did. Your contribution is invaluable to match the crimes. There’s also the possibility that it’s a copycat murder: as you’re well aware there has been far more in the press about this than we’d have liked. But if a link is proven we still have by far the heavier case burden: eight murders that remain unsolved.’

Colby didn’t need reminding: three years that had consumed his life like never before. The number of murders attributed to the Ripper ranged from five to as many as eleven, but eight was the number Colby had personally cited as having links. No past investigation had attracted such strong public furore and a Fleet Street eager for fresh readers hadn’t helped.

‘There was also a mark left on this one,’ Grayling said. ‘A small X on her left shoulder.’

‘Oh?’

‘It might be significant, it might not. Or indeed, it might mean that this is a different man entirely: not the Ripper at all. We won’t know until we get the full details.’

‘Yes, I see.’ Colby sighed. ‘One problem, though. I have an important speech at the Royal College of Surgeons in two weeks time that I must be here for. I won’t be able to go until after that.’

‘I’m not sure matters will hold that long — aside from the politics. McCluskey would no doubt start bleating about our incompetence again. Can’t you delay it — speak there later?’

‘No, it’s an annual event. But that’s not the only problem.’ The rest of Colby’s hectic social calendar flooded in: his son’s upcoming investiture at Sandhurst, a dinner-dance invitation from Lord and Lady Northbrook that he’d face untold woe from his wife for missing. ‘I fear I’m not going to be able to go over.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that. I suppose I’ll just have to tell McCluskey the bad news — or probably good from his point of view. He’ll be relieved no doubt that we aren’t interfering, as well as now have first-hand proof of that incomp—’

‘I have a suggestion,’ Colby cut in. The thought had struck as Grayling started riding him. ‘One of my best students went over to New York four months ago. An aunt who he was close to — she raised him after his mother died — was very ill. He could stand in for me.’

‘But would he be competent enough?’

‘Very much so. My main protégée, you could say. Of all my students, he was the only one to identify crucial links in the Ripper case without my constant prompting. Uncanny — almost as if he knew the man personally.’

‘I see.’

‘And, of course, I could give him added consultation by telegram and letter from London.’

‘Yes, I suppose it could work,’ Grayling said at length. ‘But if he’s picked up on any of the scuttlebutt in London, tell him not to use our pet-term, Inspector McClumsy — get us off on the wrong foot. And what’s his name, by the way?’

Colby swallowed back a chuckle. ‘Jameson. Finley Jameson.’

 

‘Mr Jameson… Mr Jameson!’

The voice had a slight echo, as if it was at the end of a tunnel, and it took Finley Jameson a moment to focus on the wizened Chinaman hovering over him and realize where he was. The smell of opium smoke and incense was heavy and Jameson wasn’t sure if the mist was just in the air or behind his eyes.

‘Mr Jameson… Lawrence is here. Says he has an urgent message for you. Shall I show him in?’

That snapped Jameson to. He sat up, rubbing his head. Years back in his university days, he’d had a shock of wavy, wild blond hair, but now, cropped short, it looked much darker.

‘No … tell him to wait. I’ll be out in a few minutes.’ He didn’t want his assistant, Lawrence, to see him like this. He wouldn’t understand.

‘Do you want me to get Sulee to bring you some tea? Help you waken?’

‘Yes … thank you. An excellent suggestion.’

Sulee, more distant through the mist, gave a small bow as she went to make him tea. Her lithe beauty was apparent despite the plain high-collar shirt and loose trousers of any laundry worker.

He recalled Ling offering for a dollar that Sulee give him a scented oil massage while he smoked; for another dollar she’d apply the oil with her naked body and then lick it off inch by inch ‘like a cat’.

Jameson thought he’d politely declined, but when later he seemed to remember Sulee’s oiled body writhing against him, he wasn’t so sure. Then halfway through her eyes became vertical ovals and her skin transformed to that of a tiger’s, complete with stripes — unless it was the candlelight throwing shadows through a nearby palm — so perhaps it had been a dream after all.

The main thing to attract Jameson to these dens was that wonderful merging between dreams and reality. But was death always what triggered his visits? Certainly, the first time he’d visited one had been not long after his mother’s death and it couldn’t be sheer coincidence that his visits since had often been following his and Colby’s most traumatic autopsies. Now, too, this visit to Ling’s had come straight after his aunt’s death and often his past visits to dens had taken place when other problems had arisen in his life. Was he escaping personal demons or merely enjoying a harmless ethereal distraction? After a moment, he shrugged the thought away. As often, he found himself more at ease studying the intricacies of the lives of others than his own.

 

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The clerks’ room is its usual, frenetic, five o’clock worst: Stanley is holding conversations with two solicitors on different telephones, Sally is fending off questions from two members of Chambers while scanning the Daily Cause List and Robert, the junior, is optimistically trying to tie a brief with one hand while pouring a cup of coffee for the head of Chambers with the other. Sir Geoffrey Duchenne QC returned from the Court of Appeal ten minutes earlier, muttering that Lord Bloody-Justice Bloody-Birkett was to the law of marine insurance what Bambi was to quantum physics, ejected another barrister’s conference already in progress from his room and slammed the door. He can still be heard giving a post-mortem of the day’s defeat to the senior partner of the firm of solicitors that instructed him. Superimposed on all this is the clatter of the two typists generating an apparently endless stream of fee notes to go out in the last post.

Charles Holborne pokes his head into the clerks’ room and wonders if he’ll be able to make himself heard. Dark, curly-haired and described by his criminal clients as “built like a brick shithouse”, Charles is the odd man out in these chambers. Indeed, he is the odd man out in the Temple and the Criminal Bar generally. The only barrister in Chambers to have been state-educated, he got into Cambridge by virtue of a scholarship and, perhaps, the DFC earned as a wartime Spitfire pilot. Charles had what they call a “good war” and it’s been opening doors for him ever since.

He watches with a smile as Sally — pert, cheeky Sally from Romford — politely tells Mr Sebastian Campbell-Smythe, a senior barrister of fifteen years’ call, to return to his room and not to disturb her. If he causes her to miss his case in the List, he’ll not be best pleased, will he? Sally, thinks Charles, not for the first time, is ideally suited to life as a barristers’ clerk. She’s quick-witted and quick-tongued enough to keep in line twenty-six prima donna barristers all her senior in years, supposed social status and intelligence without actually crossing the line into rudeness. Stanley, the senior clerk, has high hopes of her.

She turns towards the door and sees Charles.

‘Going to Mick’s,’ he mouths, making exaggerated saucer and cup-lifting motions with his hands.

She smiles. Notwithstanding Charles’s education and carefully cultured accent, he’s an East Ender like her, and there’s something of an unspoken bond between them.

‘Don’t forget your buggery con…’ she says, as nonchalantly as if the case had been a vicar summonsed for careless driving. She reaches for the diary and runs her finger down it until she finds his initials. ‘Four-thirty.’

Charles nods. He’s already read the case papers and there’s time for a cup of tea and a bite to eat at the café on Fleet Street before his client and the solicitor arrive for the conference.

Pulling his coat around him, Charles steps out from Chancery Court into the rain. A gust of wind bows the bare branches of the plane trees towards him and threatens to dislodge his hat. He jams the hat more firmly on his head and walks swiftly across the shiny cobbles towards the sound of traffic. He still loves the sensation of dislocation he experiences every time he walks through the archway from the Dickensian Temple onto twentieth century Fleet Street. The Temple has barely changed in three hundred years, and the sense that it’s caught in a fold in time is always strongest in the winter, when mist regularly drifts in off the Thames and the gas lamps are still lit at four o’clock each afternoon by a man with what resembles a six-foot matchstick. The Benchers responsible for running the Inn are debating the installation of electric lights and Charles knows it’s only a matter of time, but he’ll miss the hiss of the gas, the fluttering flames and the shifting shadows.

He turns onto Fleet Street and walks in the direction of St Paul’s Cathedral, its dome barely visible in the murky light, past the Black Lubianka, the affectionate name of the Daily Express’s art deco headquarters, and through a small steamy door. He’s greeted by a hot exhalation of bacon fat and cigarette smoke.

“Mick’s” offers cheap meals for fourteen hours a day and is second home to both Fleet Street hacks and Temple barristers. Its all-day breakfast, a heart-stopping pyramid of steaming cholesterol for only 1s 6d, is legendary. Charles loves the feel of the place, the easy conversations and ribald jokes about cases, clients and judges. The tension of a long court day, particularly the miseries of an unexpected conviction or swingeing sentence, can here be assuaged in a fog of smoke and chip fat. It also makes a welcome change from the rarefied atmosphere of 2 Chancery Court, where most of Charles’s colleagues deal in the bills of lading, the judicial review, and the leasehold enfranchisement of civil work.

At this time of day, with courts adjourning for the night and Mick’s being on the route to and from the Old Bailey, the clientele is more barristerial than journalistic, although Charles sees and waves to Percy Farrow, a hack friend who’s covered several of his cases. Charles negotiates his way through the narrow gap between the tables towards the Formica counter and orders tea and toast. He looks for somewhere to sit, but Percy is deeply engrossed with a colleague, so Charles squeezes his way to a stool at the end of the counter, picking up a discarded Daily Mirror from an adjacent table. Then he recognises a tall man sitting two tables away from him, hunched over a cup of tea. Charles goes to the man’s table.

‘Thought it was you, Ozzie,’ says Charles, joining him.

The man starts and looks up sharply. Charles hasn’t seen Ozzie Sinclair, the tall lugubrious thief, for years. ‘I thought you were away,’ says Charles. ‘Weren’t you doing a stretch?’

‘Fuck me,’ says Ozzie, his eyes widening, making the puffy bags under them bulge like half-crescent satchels. ‘Charlie Horowitz, as I live and breathe.’

‘Charles Holborne now,’ corrects Charles. ‘For professional purposes.’

‘Oh yeah, sorry. I ’eard you was doin’ all right for yourself, Charlie.’

‘Can’t complain.’

‘Good on yer.’ Ozzie sighs. ‘Yeah, I was away. That bastard Milford-Stevens gave me six for one measly lorry.’

Charles doesn’t share the thief’s outrage. Now in his late forties, Ozzie has been in and out of prison for offences of dishonesty since he was thirteen; with his record, six years for stealing a lorry full of condemned meat to sell to West End restaurants didn’t seem excessive to him.

‘Yes, I thought it was a bit steep,’ he says diplomatically. ‘But you’re out now. On licence, I assume?’ Ozzie nods. ‘And what brings you to this neck of the woods? You’re not in trouble already?’ Charles hitches a thumb over his shoulder towards the Temple. ‘Seeing a brief?’

Ozzie shakes his head. ‘No, nuffin’ like that. Harry Robeson’s given us some temporary work as an outdoor clerk. It helped with me parole. I’m just dropping papers off at some chambers.’

‘Harry Robeson, eh?’

There isn’t a criminal lawyer in practice who doesn’t know Harry Robeson, a villains’ solicitor with a clientele that includes most of the serious criminals in south London.

‘Interesting case?’ asks Charles. Like every barrister in the Temple, he’s always keen to know where the quality work is going.

‘Can’t tell you. All a bit ’ush-’ush.’ Ozzie drops his voice and leans forward. ‘It’s not a proper case yet, but it’s gonna be big.’

‘What do you mean “not a proper case”?’

Ozzie taps his fleshy nose conspiratorially. ‘Can’t say no more. ’Cept it’ll be a cutthroat.’

A cutthroat defence is one where the prosecution knows that one of the accused did the deed but can’t prove which, and each defendant points the finger at the other. Charles likes them; they’re usually as fun to prosecute as they are tricky to defend.

‘Fair enough.’

They chat for a few minutes about old faces from the East End and how the remaining bombsites are only now being redeveloped, but Charles has little to contribute. After a few minutes he knocks back the dregs of his tea, pops the last bite of margarine-saturated toast into his mouth, and pushes back from the table. ‘Best be off,’ he says. ‘Keep lucky, Ozzie.’

‘An’ you, mate.’

Returning to Chambers, Charles hears an argument in progress through the thick, centuries-old, oak door. A tall barrister in pin-striped trousers, in mid-rant at Stanley, whirls round as Charles enters.

‘There you are! Now look here, Holborne,’ Corbett says, using the formality of Charles’s surname to demonstrate his displeasure, ‘this is positively the last time. I’m going to take it up at the next Chambers’ meeting.’

Charles looks up at the man. Corbett is almost six inches taller than him, lean and fair. ‘Is there a problem, Laurence?’ asks Charles quietly, pointedly using Corbett’s first name.

‘Yes. That!’ replies Corbett, jabbing his finger in the direction of the waiting room.

‘Your con’s arrived, sir,’ explains Stanley patiently.

‘And?’ asks Charles.

‘And my fiancée has been sitting waiting for me in there with that rapist of yours!’

‘Yes?’ enquires Charles.

‘Don’t act the fool, Holborne. I know for a fact you’ve been asked by several members to keep your smutty clientele out of Chambers during normal office hours.’

‘Is my client with the instructing solicitor?’ Charles asks Stanley.

‘Yes, sir, he is sitting between Mr Cohen and his clerk. Mr Smith’s conference is waiting in there too, sir.’

‘Well,’ continues Charles, turning to Corbett and quickly stepping backwards to allow Robert to scurry past with an armful of briefs, ‘I’d have thought it unlikely that your betrothed would be ravaged in front of five witnesses, even assuming my client was interested in her, which I doubt. Irresistible though you no doubt find her, Mr Petrovicj is charged with buggering another male. He’s not, if you’ll excuse the pun, into women.’ Charles smiles.

‘That makes no difference at all, as you well know.’

‘I’d have thought it would make quite a big difference, particularly to Mr Petrovicj. However, if you’ll let me go and start my con,’ says Charles, turning his back on Corbett, ‘I can remove the evil influence from the room.’ Charles opens the door to leave, and pauses. ‘By the way, Laurence, I know you don’t do crime, but I’d’ve thought even you knew that a man’s innocent until proven guilty. Mr Petrovicj isn’t a rapist, or a bugger for that matter, till the jury says he is.’

An hour and a half later, Charles unlocks the main doors of Chambers, and directs Cohen’s clerk and the client towards Temple tube station. He returns to his room where Cohen is still packing his briefcase.

‘Thank you, Charles,’ he says. ‘That was very helpful.’

Cohen and Partners have instructed Charles loyally since his pupillage, and Charles doesn’t mind Cohen using his first name. It’s an informality that most of his colleagues wouldn’t tolerate.

‘My pleasure.’

‘I don’t want to hold you up,’ says Cohen, ‘but can we have a quick word about something new?’

Charles looks at his watch. He still has over an hour’s journey to get home, where things are already difficult enough with Henrietta. Another late return is not what he and his wife need. He reluctantly resumes his seat.

‘Fire away.’

‘I was duty solicitor at Snow Hill police station last night. They had two men in custody for the Express Dairies robbery and murder. I didn’t get a good look, but I think one’s an old client, a chap called Derek Plumber. He’s got a string of convictions for robbery, always as a getaway driver.’

Charles’s ears prick up. ‘Did you sign them up?’ he asks. He’s too junior to have been instructed on a murder case, but if Ralph Cohen has managed to get the two men to sign legal aid forms, a very tasty brief might be coming his way.

‘No,’ replies Cohen. ‘They were about to be interviewed, and I would’ve sat in, but the officer in the case was called away and they were left in the cells. Eventually I went home but, as I was leaving, I overheard that they’re going to be produced at Bow Street tomorrow. I don’t suppose you happen to be free, do you?’

‘I’m not in court,’ replies Charles tentatively, ‘so I suppose it might be possible.’

Cohen shrugs. ‘It might be a complete waste of time,’ he says, ‘and I can’t promise you’ll be paid. But if you happened to be there and they’re not represented yet … we could chap arein.’ The solicitor smiles and winks gently.

Charles is embarrassed at not knowing the Yiddish phrase and at the same time slightly irritated at the assumption that he would. Ralph Cohen, a greying man in his early sixties, has been in practice since just after the Great War. His offices, two rooms above a laundry in the East End of London where having a Jewish surname is a positive advantage, are emblazoned across three windows with “Cohen and Partners”. Different rules apply at the Bar, the much more elitist, Establishment branch of the profession, where class and religious prejudice are endemic.

Ant-Semitism has been a daily nuisance throughout Charles’s life. He and his brother David frequently returned home with bloodied noses, missing stolen schoolbooks and once, in David’s case, without his shoes. As a result their father, Harry, took the boys to the gym where he and his brothers had boxed since they were young. There, Charles discovered a talent for violence. By fifteen he was London Schoolboy Champion; during the war he represented the RAF and, when he picked up his education again at Cambridge, he got a Blue.

From then on Charles’s size and skill meant that he was rarely physically challenged. In any event, the anti-Semitism at Cambridge was more subtle; his peers and tutors traded not in fisticuffs but in snubs and closed doors. Still, by the time he was called to the Bar in 1950, Charlie Horowitz had metamorphosed into “Charles Holborne” and no longer considered himself part of the Jewish community.

Charles never refers to his Jewish background and prefers not to be reminded by others. Nonetheless, despite the camouflage of the false surname, shortly after he finished pupillage, a drunk driving brief from Cohen and Partners landed on his desk — the first brief in his own name, not a “return” from another barrister. Its delivery prompted glances and overheard comments about a “Jewish mafia”, but that was unfair; had Charles been no good, he’d never have received another. On the other hand, if he was as good as the next man (or better) what was wrong, as old Mr Cohen used to say, with instructing a nice Jewish boy, even if he pretended he wasn’t? A man’s got to live, right?

‘Sorry?’ says Charles.

‘Chap arein; to take advantage,’ explains Cohen.

‘Oh, I see.’

Charles considers the offer. His desk is loaded with paperwork in arrears and he’s keen to have time out of court to clear some of it. He can’t really afford to waste half a day, unpaid, hanging around a Magistrate’s Court in the hope that two potential clients might be brought up without legal representation. On the other hand, it’s a murder, and Cohen has been loyal to him…

‘All right,’ he says. ‘I’ll go and see what I can do.’

‘Good man,’ says Cohen. ‘Take legal aid forms and sign them up if you get the opportunity.’

The two men shake hands and Charles shows the solicitor out.

 

Charles wrestles with the key in the lock of his front door, unable to get it to turn. His grip on the cloth bag containing his robes and the huge briefcase, both in his left hand, begins to slip and the set of papers clamped between his head and shoulder slides to the floor. He throws everything to the porch floor in exasperation and reaches again for the keyhole just as the door opens. A pretty blonde woman of about twenty stands on the threshold, her hair tied in a ponytail. She has some sheets over her arm, as if she’d been in the middle of making up a bed.

‘Yes?’ she asks. ‘Oh, it’s you, Charles,’ she says, opening the door to him.

Her pretence of not knowing Charles raises his ire one degree further. Fiona, the au pair, joined the household against Charles’s wishes three months previously. Her older sister had been at school with Henrietta, and Henrietta was prevailed upon to give her a temporary job while she looked around London for something more permanent. Within a fortnight of Fiona’s arrival, Henrietta had warmed to the arrangement and Charles had cooled to it. They had no children and Henrietta worked only two half-days in the village; they also had a cleaner; so why on earth, protested Charles, were they paying Fiona to sit around drinking their coffee all day? Now, however, she’s Henrietta’s best friend and her stay has become indefinite. Charles is sure that her insolence, to which Henrietta seems oblivious and which grows more offensive daily, is learned at her mistress’s shoulder.

Charles scoops up his papers and other burdens and brushes past her. ‘Where’s —’ he starts, but Fiona has closed the door and disappeared towards the rear of the house.

Charles drops his things onto the Italian tiled floor and climbs the stairs to Henrietta’s dressing room — another innovation he doesn’t like. When they moved in, to a house he thought too large and ostentatious for the two of them, it at least had the advantage of two spare bedrooms. Then Henrietta decided that she required a “dressing room”, which had metamorphosed into “her” bedroom, now with an en suite bathroom, where she sleeps half the week on account of her “bad heads” and the demands of his late-night working.

‘Oh, there you are. You’re late.’ Henrietta stands at her dressing table, trying to fasten a necklace. ‘Here, do this for me, will you?’ she says.

She’s in evening dress, her long chestnut hair piled in a complicated style on top of her head. The dress is cut very low at the back and Charles sees that she’s not wearing a bra. As she approaches Charles and hands him the necklace, he smells the perfume he bought her for Christmas with the proceeds of the indecency plea at Bedford Assizes. Almost everything they own, with the exception of gifts from her family, are the indirect proceeds of crime, and it amuses him, and irritates Henrietta, to identify their belongings by reference to the crime that paid for them. Thus, last year’s holiday was courtesy of the fraud at the Old Bailey; Henrietta’s dress, the one she is wearing, came from the armed robbery at Canterbury. Who said crime didn’t pay?

‘You smell good,’ he says.

‘Thank you.’

He finishes fastening the necklace and kisses the nape of her neck. She moves away without response.

‘You, on the other hand, look dreadful,’ she comments, looking at him through the mirror of her dressing table while inserting her earrings. ‘Late con?’

‘Yes. That buggery I told you about.’

Henrietta shakes her head. ‘I bet half the Temple covets your practice, Charles.’ She disappears into the bathroom.

‘Look,’ he replies, calling after her and flopping onto her bed. ‘I’ve had a hard day. Can we save the shabbiness of my practice for the next row? We’ve the whole weekend free, if it’s important to you.’

‘I still don’t understand why you won’t move completely into civil,’ she replies from the bathroom. ‘You’d earn more and keep up with the paperwork without working every night. Daddy says you’ve the mind for it.’

‘How nice of Daddy,’ says Charles, under his breath. Then, more audibly, ‘I’ve explained this hundreds of times. Criminal work is important. Everyone’s entitled to a proper defence, especially those at the bottom of the pile who can’t afford to pay for it. You forget: I was there once.’

He stands and follows her into the bathroom. She’s straightening her stocking seams before a full-length mirror.

‘Fine words,’ she says, ‘but I’m not convinced you really believe them. I think if you really examined your motives, you’d find you just love the grubby excitement of it.’

Charles slides his arms round her from behind and cups her breasts. “‘Grubby excitement”? But you used to like a bit of rough.’

She sighs. ‘Once, maybe; not now. Take your hands away please. You’ll mark the silk.’

‘“Had a hard day, dear? Have a drink and I’ll massage your shoulders. Dinner’ll only be a few minutes”,’ says Charles with heavy irony, but he removes his hands as requested.

‘Fuck off, Charles,’ she says, walking past him out of the bathroom and beginning to search through her wardrobe. The words somehow carry added venom when spoken so beautifully, and by such a beautiful woman. Charles trails after her and sits on the bed again, watching her bare back and slim hips, hating her and wanting her. She finds what she’s looking for: a fur coat, a gift from her father for her last birthday.

‘Etta,’ he says more softly, using what had once been his pet name for her. ‘Please can we stop fighting long enough for you to tell me where we’re supposed to be going?’

She turns to him, her face a picture of scorn. ‘We aren’t going anywhere. I’m going to Peter Ripley’s do with Daddy. It’s been in the diary for weeks.’

‘What?’

‘Charles, for God’s sake, don’t pretend you didn’t know about it. I asked you over a month ago if you wanted to come, and you made it plain in your usual charming way that you wouldn’t — and I quote — “voluntarily spend an evening with that bunch of pompous farts”. Close quote. So I made an excuse to Daddy as usual and agreed to go with him. Mummy’s away till next week. Ring any bells?’

Charles nods. He doesn’t remember the exact words he used to decline the invitation, but he’d have to plead guilty to the gist. This particular “do” is the dinner to mark the end of Mr Justice Ripley’s last tour on the Western Circuit before retirement. All the judges and barristers practising on the circuit are invited and, of course, Charles’s father-in-law, the erstwhile head of his Chambers and now also a judge on the same circuit, will be present. In the absence of Martha, Henrietta’s mother, who is visiting her sick sister in Derbyshire, Charles and Henrietta rather unexpectedly received an invitation.

Charles often attempts to explain to Henrietta why he hates these dinners. It’s not that he doesn’t know which fork to use or how to address a waiter. It’s just that the Judges, the Benchers, their wives, the High Sheriff and so on all share a common background; they went to the same schools and the same universities; they play cricket in the same teams, attend the same balls, know the same people. Charles can “busk it”, be convivial, pretend to show interest in what, or who, they are talking about, but it’s an act. The sons of Jewish furriers from Minsk by way of Mile End just don’t mix well with the sons and grandsons of the British Empire. Charles may have cast off his Jewishness while at university but he knows he’ll never be one of them. And when he is persuaded to attend, he often returns home from the event hating everyone there and, for some reason he can’t explain, himself as well.

Henrietta has read his mind. ‘Tell me something, Charles: what made you choose a profession where you’d feel such an outsider? And why, if you wanted to do criminal work, did you accept Daddy’s invitation to join a mainly civil set of chambers? You talk about “tribes”, which you know I think is complete rubbish, but then you deliberately join those which are guaranteed to make you uncomfortable. And then you complain!’

‘You don’t understand. If you’d grown up —’

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake!’ she interrupts. ‘If you mention the Jewish thing once more, I’ll puke. Your father may have grown up in Bow or wherever it was, but it’s hardly the Warsaw ghetto. And not everybody’s an anti-Semite. I’m not Jewish, remember, and I married you. The only person who’s conscious of your religion is you.’

‘You can’t possibly be serious. Do you suppose for one minute I’d have got into Chambers had you not committed the dreadful faux pas of marrying me? Half the members of Chambers can’t stand me.’

‘I doubt that, but if it’s true, it’s nothing to do with your religion. Every time you upset someone, it’s never your fault; it’s theirs because they’re anti-Semitic. It’s the perfect self-defence mechanism.’

Charles stands wearily, pulling off his tie. ‘Can we please leave this one for now, Henrietta? I’ve had a particularly difficult day.’

‘Yes, we can leave it for now, Charles, because I’m off. I believe Fiona has made something for you to eat but, if not, I suggest you walk to the pub in the village.’

She sweeps past him, checks, and returns to plant a kiss on his cheek. She’s about to move off again, but Charles grabs her forearms. He looks hard at her, shaking his head slightly, a puzzled and pained expression on his face. Henrietta looks reluctantly up into his eyes and holds his gaze for a second. Then the armour of her anger cracks; she bites her lip and looks away, no longer resisting his hold on her.

‘I don’t know, Charlie,’ she says softly, in answer to his unspoken question. ‘I wish I did.’ He pulls her gently towards him, wanting to put his arms round her, but she pushes him away and runs from the room. Charles listens to the rustle of her dress and the sound of her feet flying down the stairs, and then the slam of the front door. He doesn’t hear her crying as she drives away.

 

****

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